


fauns

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Angst and Humor, Backstory, Established Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Fauns & Satyrs, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, M/M, Magic, Romance, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 18:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: And.There are other scents in the air.Warm, musky, *deep* scents -- not quite like an animal in rut; the scents aren't sharp enough for that; but still suggestive.Still... powerful.Enticing.





	1. You can pretty much always chill Treville out with this approach.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts), [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts).

> Disclaimers: Well... some of this is definitely other people's. Yep. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: There might be one decidedly AU-ized spoiler for the second series in here if you squint. On the whole, this takes place in an, again, AU-ized pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: I started this... uh... a while ago? Not long after Flight Rising released two faun familiars that I had a ridiculously... passionate reaction to. At this point, really, I judge myself so you don't have to. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and gratitude to Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, and, of course, my Jack -- all of whom dragged me patiently through the *many* fits and starts this one went through.

Treville should probably be a lot more upset than he is. 

"... and *then*, the ladies all started *dancing* to the music, and it was only drum and a really badly-played flute, but, you know, absolutely none of us cared once they started moving their hips..." 

Treville grunts encouragingly and keeps moving. 

*Porthos* keeps moving, and, bless him, keeps talking. 

Just like Treville is one of his brothers, as opposed to his *Captain*. 

Just like -- 

Well, it's not like Treville is going to *discourage* him. He's only had Jason to treat him like a brother these last years, and while that's always been wonderful -- 

While that's always been beautiful and *needed* -- 

It's been far too long since he's had brothers, *plural*. A *pack* to hold to himself and warm the cold nights and wrap *firmly* around young Thomas every time he thinks of doing something *insane* -- 

Thomas is their only *child* -- 

They have to keep him *safe* -- and. 

And the truth is, Thomas isn't a child, at all, anymore. He's the Comte de la Fère, and doing infinitely better than simply well at it -- the way all of them always knew he *would*. 

Even if all of them had hoped he'd get just a *little* more time to be... only a young man of wealth and privilege. 

A young man with a *pack* to surround him, as opposed to a godfather and an Uncle who badly, *badly* miss -- but. 

But. He won't get either himself *or* Porthos out of the current trouble by getting himself maudlin about his life.

So, time to focus. 

"... corsets went *flying*..." 

Treville grins. Helplessly. 

Porthos keeps talking. And moving. 

And... that's just it. They're moving, together, through the woods. The strange, thick, and *decidedly* eldritch fog they'd woken up to has *mostly* lifted where they are, but they'd had to walk *out* of it. 

They'd woken up *together*, side by side, with absolutely no sign of their respective tents, their horses, their saddlebags, or their bloody *regiment*. 

This... 

To say this is a problem would be the kind of understatement he only makes to see if he can cause Richelieu to lose his temper publicly and embarrassingly. 

He sighs. 

Porthos pauses, mid-sentence about -- had he really been talking about eating a whore's arse over the bar of a tavern?

Treville stops sighing and *looks* at Porthos. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows and looks back. 

Treville raises *one* eyebrow. 

"Mm? Do you not like eating arses, sir? I mean, I don't have to --" 

"Oh, fuck. Don't stop talking. *Please* don't stop talking." 

Porthos grins like a boy. "No?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "No. I was just..." How on earth to finish *this* thought -- no. Be honest. "I was thinking about the fact that I have no bloody idea where we are." 

"Oh. Well. We'll catch up to the others eventually, eh? It's not like we don't make a lot of noise and fuss *wherever* we go." 

Treville hums. "That we do." 

Porthos nods like the matter is settled. "Now where was I?" 

"Eating out Lucille over the bar." 

"Right you are, sir!" And Porthos starts up again. 

And Treville starts walking again. 

They have no waterskins, so he's been keeping them close to the cool, clear stream, and they've been drinking when they need to. 

"... and then I got my fingers in that cunt, and she was *nice* and juicy, and I *love* that --" 

"I've always loved having my lovers good and sloppy," Treville says, before he can stop himself -- 

"Oh, *yeah*! A *wet* ride is bloody wonderful. Not that a rough ride isn't nice, too, but, you know, if you're big --" 

"It's too easy to hurt someone in the bad way," Treville says, absently, stops, and then looks around. 

"Right, right," Porthos says, and stops, too. "Did you see something, sir?" 

"I..." Treville lifts his nose, but can't smell anything especially strange. 

"Sir?" 

"Does this clearing look familiar to you, son?" 

Porthos blinks and looks around -- and frowns. "I couldn't swear to it, but maybe? But we've been marking our passage, and none of our marks are here, and we didn't *pass* any of our marks." 

Treville narrows his eyes. "No. We didn't." 

"Sir...?" 

"No, I'm imagining things. Let's keep going," Treville says. 

"Right you are, sir. So, uh. What kind of girls do *you* like, eh?" 

Treville grins. It doesn't hurt as badly as it could. 

"Oh, that looks like *stories*." 

"Is that what you wanted, son? Stories?" And Treville bundles twigs and rocks and leaves into a pile by a tree -- 

They'll do that more often -- 

Just in *case* -- 

"I *always* want stories," Porthos says. "My Mum used to say I grew on them, as opposed to her cooking." 

Treville hums and takes the last bundle of twigs from Porthos. "She must have told a *lot* of stories." 

"Well... not so many, actually," Porthos says, and his voice is a little... quiet. "The ones she did tell stayed with me, though. Always." 

And that... Treville stands straight and dusts off his gloves. "You lost her young." 

"Yes, sir," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "When I was five." 

There's a sting for that -- 

There's something that wants to *rise* for that -- 

But it's like the fog that had separated them from the rest of the regiment. It's like -- or...

No. 

That was a different sort of obscuring. He knows that. That was no bit of weather, and this is -- 

Is -- 

What? 

"Sir...? All right?" 

What was he thinking about? He can't -- 

He can't for the life of him *remember* what he was -- 

Porthos was just talking about how he'd lost his *mother*; how the hell had he wound up woolgathering from *that*?

Treville growls and stands, gripping Porthos's shoulders -- 

"I -- sir?" 

"I apologize, son. I haven't the faintest clue what took my attention just then, but it *won't* happen again. You were saying about your mother?" 

Porthos blinks -- 

Something almost seems to take *his* attention – but.

Then he smiles wickedly. "Mayhap you were just thinking about the kind of women who strike your fancy, sir..." 

Treville *coughs* -- 

Porthos waggles his eyebrows --

"Son --" 

Porthos sticks his *tongue* out a little, and that -- 

It's not the first time he's looked for signs of *active* earth-magery around Porthos. There's *some* power there, but only enough, Treville would wager, to leave Porthos a little more sensitive than the average man. 

A little more... aware of the undercurrents. 

But that doesn't mean Treville can stop looking. 

"Sir... are you sure you're all right?"

Treville squeezes Porthos's shoulders firmly -- 

"Oh --" 

"I *mostly* didn't like *women*, at all," he says, and pulls on his most hopefully-distracting arsehole-grin. 

Porthos's jaw drops -- 

Treville *claps* Porthos shoulders and steps back, gesturing him to follow. 

"Right, but..." 

"Mm...?" 

"You..." 

"Yes...?" 

Porthos laughs hard. "I'm an *idiot*." 

Treville growls. "Don't ever say that about yourself." 

"I --" 

"*Never* say that about yourself." 

"All *right*, sir, but -- *no* one has *ever* paired you up with *any* noblewomen. Just -- never. There aren't even any *rumours*." 

"Hm. I should probably do something about that," Treville says, and makes a show of stroking his beard as they walk. 

Porthos laughs explosively -- and then nearly falls over as he *obviously* moves to smack Treville and *then* remembers who Treville is just barely in time to save himself. 

The resulting dance is about as graceful as a drunken bull with two busted knees, but it *is* entertaining. 

Once Porthos recovers, Treville hums and starts walking again. "As I was saying, I *probably* should do something about that --" 

"Um." 

"Mm?" 

"I'm *really* sorry, sir --"

Treville cuts him off with a gesture. "If anything, son, I should be apologizing to *you* for not maintaining military discipline and keeping things professional between us --" 

"Oh -- shit -- no --" 

"-- which *neither* of us wants. So." Treville claps Porthos's shoulder again. "Relax. *Breathe*. We may have no blessed idea where we are, but we can damned well entertain each other until we can figure it out." 

Porthos beams at him -- "*Yes*, sir!" 

And there are moments... 

Laurent had warned him, more than once, that there would be moments -- countless moments -- when he would only mean to offer comfort, reassurance, a word of encouragement here and there, and what he would wind up doing, instead, is earning the absolute fire and fervour of *allegiance*. 

The nature of the position demanded that he do everything just the same *anyway*, but -- 

But it would happen, and he wouldn't be ready -- he would *never* be ready -- and he would damn well have to act like he was. 

Because that was the position, too. 

He'd listened to those warnings -- the last time he *hadn't* listened to something Laurent had said, he'd been *fourteen* -- but they hadn't really sunk in. 

Of course they hadn't. Laurent had had Treville's allegiance -- his fire and fervour and *everything* else -- since he was, in fact, fourteen. 

"I like that smile on your face, sir." 

Treville hums. "I'm thinking of my predecessor. My eldest, dearest brother." 

"Oh -- yeah?" 

Treville nods. "Also? The reason why there are no rumours about me clogging up the lives of any particular noblewomen." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm. I suggested it, when we were in the process of cleaning up my reputation as much as it *could* be cleaned. While we didn't have *many* allies among the nobility, we did have *some* -- including a handful of women who would've been willing to link their names with mine, for the sake of quieting rumours about my buggery." 

"*Really*." 

"The higher you rise? The more favours you do -- or don't do. Choose wisely, son." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "That I will, sir. So... why did the former Captain not want to handle it that way?" 

"Laurent was a man of honour, and he believed -- to the very end -- in *maintaining* his honour. He simply could *not* see the good in staining the reputations of *women* of honour, even though it would be by their choice." 

"Right, but --" 

"A couple of those women wanted to hit him with blunt objects for that." 

"This is what I'm *saying* --" 

"And, now that he's gone... well. I've maintained the honour of the women in question in deference to his memory, but the truth is that the time has come to buy insurance for me -- and for the King's Musketeers as a whole," Treville says, and smiles wryly. 

"*Thank* you, sir." 

Treville rubs Porthos's back. "Laurent didn't *often* let his honour outweigh practical concerns --" 

"But you always let his honour outweigh *your* concerns?" 

Treville opens his mouth -- 

Pauses by the tree he wants to leave a mark on -- 

Porthos has his eyebrows up -- 

Treville gives himself a shake. "I did argue with him, from time to time." 

"How often did you get the final say?" 

Well... Treville grins and gestures Porthos to the fallen leaves. 

"Right, sir, but --" 

"All the time, son." 

"Oh." 

"When his wife Marie-Angelique took my side of things." 

Porthos snorts and picks up leaves. "And let me guess -- you and your brother just didn't *give* her a say in this decision." 

Treville licks his lips. Marie-Angelique *definitely* would've sided with Paulette, Bérénice, and Laure. 

And might've been tempted to pick up a fireplace poker, like Adélie. 

"I..." 

Porthos snickers, adding his leaves to the pile. "*Got* it. You shouldn't keep *secrets* from the women in your life, sir." 

He never had, when it was Amina. And -- 

There's an interesting doubling for a moment. There's the part of him which wants to say that, and wants to say that *specifically* to Porthos, and talk about -- something, definitely *something* -- 

And then there's -- 

There's...

What is it? 

What was -- 

"Sir? Are you sniffing something?" 

*Shit* -- but. 

Isn't there something strange? 

Wasn't there, a moment ago? 

Something *pushing* at his thoughts -- or pulling.

Or... manipulating. 

Treville stands and growls low, not bothering to hide how animal it is. 

"Shit -- *sir*?" 

"Just a moment, Porthos," Treville says, and tries to piece together what he was thinking about -- no. There's nothing left in his mind but wisps and smoke. 

It does and *doesn't* feel like it's connected to whatever separated them from the regiment this morning. The part of him which likes to wrap things up neatly wants to take away that 'doesn't', but it's time to trust his instincts. 

There are two different forces at work here, both of them magical in nature, both of them powerful, both of them focused on him at the very least -- but Porthos can't be discounted. 

Treville makes his eyes gleam for Porthos. 

"*Fuck* -- sir? Are you -- are you a *shifter*?" 

"I am, son, and I'm *very* happy to hear that you're familiar with at least some of this." 

"I. Uh. I came up around witches, sir," Porthos says, eyes wide and staring a little. "They took care of me and mine. You know, after my Mum died." 

When he was... how old?

Why does he think he should know that? No, leave that for now. 

"Were any of them *spirit*-mages, son?" 

Porthos blinks -- and growls low, himself. "You think we're being mucked about with." 

"I do." 

Porthos nods slowly. 

"That makes sense to you, son?" 

"Yeah, sir. It's just... it's just little things, but there've been a couple of times when I've wanted to say or think something and then... lost it. Or it just seemed *really* important to keep talking about sex." 

Treville *snarls*. 

"Easy, sir, don't let your dog -- wolf? -- out, yet," Porthos says, and reaches for him cautiously. "We have to figure this out." 

"I'm not... losing control." 

"No, sir?" 

"I'm just very, very *angry*. It would be one thing if whoever or whatever this is had targeted only me -- I've made *enemies* in the left-handed war --" 

"Uhh..." 

"But pulling you into this is beyond the pale," Treville says, and rests his hand on the hilt of his thoroughly-cursed rapier. "We have to assume we're being led into danger, or, at the very least, kept deliberately lost until we grow weakened and exhausted." 

"Shit --" Porthos drops his hand to his own rapier -- 

"In situations like that, the best thing to do is force a confrontation before the weakness sets in. We're marking our path more effectively." 

"Right you are, sir. How?" 

Treville shows his teeth -- and taps his nose. "They might be able to fuck with our minds, son... but I'll know the scent of my own piss until long after I'm dead." 

Porthos stares at him. "That's... that's a really depressing statement, sir." 

Treville barks a laugh -- 

He honestly wasn't *expecting* to laugh -- 

And Porthos grins. "Just tell me *where* to let fly, sir." 

"Hold on a bit, son. You're marking the next point on the path," Treville says, grinning and opening his belts -- 

His trousers and breeches -- 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"Mm?" 

"Right, so, I didn't *mean* to peek --" 

Treville snorts and nearly misses the *tree*. "Porthos." 

"I *didn't* -- much --" 

Treville wheezes -- 

"I always assumed that shifters' marks were, you know, *like* the animal's -- whatever --" 

"And they *are* --" 

Porthos moves up beside him and *points* at Treville's cock. "There is not one single dog *or* wolf on this *planet* with a cock that big. So either you're something else --" 

Treville coughs *again* -- 

"Or --" 

"No -- no," Treville says, and stops pissing, shaking himself off and tucking himself away. "I'm a dog. A very large -- ah. When I shift into the dog, he's got a cock that's more dog-sized --" 

"Right, all right --" 

"I mean, it's still -- he's a large dog --" 

"I've got you --" 

"But this cock -- the one I have now... you know... I think I'll stop talking now," Treville says, lacing up his trousers and pulling on a stern and Captain-ly mien. 

Porthos bites the tip of his tongue. 

Treville tries beetling his brows like Kitos used to do. 

Porthos laughs at him. *Hard*. 

It's quite possibly the most wonderful sound Treville's heard in years. He drinks it in, absolutely all of it, smiling and breathing in Porthos's scents -- 

And the scents of his own piss -- 

Just *try* to muck about with that, whoever you are -- 

And Porthos punches himself in the chest and -- breathes. 

"All better, son?" 

"Oh, yeah, yeah. Definitely," he says, and nods mock-judiciously. 

Treville hums and bows and flourishes in the vague direction they're going. 

*Porthos* wheezes -- 

They walk on. 

They walk in relative silence for a few minutes -- 

"How long before you um... lose your own scents?"

"It varies. I'd already be working for it, a little, in a pine forest. In *this* forest, in winter, we could go for miles without me losing the scents. It's summer now, though, and there's a *riot* of scents around us -- including that stream I *refuse* to take us away from." 

"No, sir, I hear you." 

"So... call it a mile. We'll have you piss a little earlier than that." 

Porthos blinks a bit. 

He actually looks *dazed*. 

He -- 

"Porthos?" 

"How the bloody hell do you *survive* the latrines?" 

Treville coughs. 

"I *mean* it --" 

"Years of practice, son." 

"But --" 

"I used to vomit *daily* when I first got these powers." 

"Oh -- shit." 

"Mm." 

"But -- you weren't, you know, born with them?" 

"No, I --" 

And there's a moment -- a long one -- when Treville is only looking into Porthos's eyes, Porthos's beautiful dark eyes, and the brown of them is so familiar, so --

If he could only *remember* -- 

And Porthos's broad, soft mouth is familiar, too, isn't it? 

The way that it moves? 

The way that it almost seems to invite -- 

But that's not how you're supposed to think of your -- 

Your -- 

And then the moment passes, and Treville has no bloody *idea* -- wait. "Porthos, what were we *talking* about?" 

"Fuck -- *fuck* -- I don't *know*, sir! All I know is that I got to thinking about how comforting you were, how good it felt to be around you --" 

"Oh -- son..." 

Porthos blushes. "I know, not what you want to hear --" 

"No, I --" And *Treville* is blushing -- how the hell is he supposed to end that sentence fragment? 

"Sir...?" 

Treville licks his lips. "All is well, son. We'll get to the bottom of this." 

Porthos breathes deep and nods. "Right you are, sir. I'll keep my head on my shoulders." 

Oh, son... 

Treville cups the back of Porthos's neck and squeezes, just for a moment. 

"Sir? I'm all right." 

I'm not. But that's not what you say. "I know you are, son. You always have been," he says, and smiles up at Porthos. 

Porthos blushes again, blushes like a boy -- 

And Treville wants... many things. That, at least, can't be blamed on anything but his own deviance. 

"Sir, I -- you know *exactly* how much help I needed when I was first starting out." 

"And I know exactly how hard you worked to *get* it, son," Treville says, and they set off walking again. "You got more out of the lieutenants than *any* of the other recruits in your group, and then you turned around and taught everyone else." 

"Well, of course I did!" 

Treville grins. "You knew -- from the beginning -- that a regiment rises and falls on brotherhood. And you *made* these men your brothers." 

Porthos ducks his head again. 

Treville rumbles and strokes his back. "What's that about, mm?" 

"I needed it, sir. I needed -- the brotherhood." 

Oh... "You missed your friends -- your *family*." 

"My Mum always said you shouldn't *have* friends if they weren't also your family, and she was *right*. Right all the way *down*." 

"Yes, she *was*." 

Porthos smiles at him. "I um. There were a lot of us. At first, I mean. All squatting together in draughty rooms, here and there in the Court. I -- anyway. I needed that. I needed to have something *like* that again." 

"A big family. A big family to take care of -- who would also take care of you." 

Porthos smiles more broadly. "That's right, sir. Is that... um. Is that one of the things you like about being a soldier?" 

Treville hums. "No, son. It's one of the things I *love* about being a soldier." 

Porthos *beams* at him. 

Treville claps him on the back. "Let's get on, son. We've a pillock to show the error of their ways." 

"*Absolutely*, sir." 

And they walk. But...

But the scents of Treville's piss get *stronger*, somehow. 

As if they'd turned about. 

As if -- 

And now Treville *knows* the clearing they're approaching is one they've visited fuck only knows how many times. 

And. 

There are other scents in the air. 

Warm, musky, *deep* scents -- not quite like an animal in rut; the scents aren't sharp enough for that; but still suggestive. 

Still... powerful. 

Enticing. 

"What..." Porthos is frowning -- and flaring his nostrils just a little. 

"What do you smell, son?" 

"I'm not sure, sir. I mean -- *woods*, but also... something..." He licks his lips and takes an absent step forward.

Treville grips his arm. "Stop right there." 

"I -- sir?" 

"What I smell is nothing that belongs in a non-magical forest, son. I'm taking point." 

"What *is* it?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "I'd very much like to know the answer to that question. *Most* of the beings I've gone up against in the left-handed war have been either demons or undead, and this doesn't feel like either of those." 

Porthos nods. "Yeah, no, I'd know if it was undead." 

Treville raises an eyebrow helplessly.

"One of the witches who took care of us -- Yejide -- is a death-witch. She trained me up in a lot of this stuff so I could help her with her, you know, workings." 

"And that included going up against *undead*, son?" 

"Well... yeah?" 

Treville raises a finger -- but, ultimately, he can't take his men to task for the poor parenting decisions made by their guardians. 

There are several *different* varieties of bad idea in that. 

He lowers his hand. 

"Sir...?" 

He takes a *breath* -- "All is well, son. But I'd like for you to talk to me more about how you came up." 

Porthos blushes again -- "I -- yes, sir. Uh. Shall we?" 

"Let's." And Treville shifts his ears and teeth, but nothing else. 

"Bloody hell, sir..." 

"Better hearing, better *rending*," he slurs, and moves in quick and quiet. 

Porthos follows well -- 

Nothing attacks -- 

Nothing attacks -- 

The scents grow wild and strong and hot and *tempting* -- 

It's all Treville can do not to growl -- 

It's all he can do not to *rumble* -- 

Porthos is swallowing and *panting* -- 

And then -- they're in the clearing. 

The sun is shining down -- it's just past midday. 

The flowers are all open, and their scents are adding to the overpowering cacophony. Sweetness and musk. 

Musk and desire. 

*Lust* and -- 

Well, there's the question, isn't it. 

Because the creature waiting for them in the clearing -- lounging on the dead tree that has -- mostly -- rotted into the soil *appears* to be male, but Treville hadn't needed Jason to teach him that looks could be deceiving on this side of things. 

Call it male for now. 

The creature appears to be adolescent, and is covered in chestnut and cream fur, and the chestnut darkens to black at the sharp hooves he has instead of any other kind of feet; and at the long, tapering fingers. The horns that curl back from his temples are black and spiraling -- and come to wicked points. The chestnut fur on his flanks is dappled with cream spots, and his chest and belly are cream. His legs and groin are chestnut, and his cock-sheath is dappled, as well. The hair on his head is probably no closer to human hair than the hair on *Treville's* head, though it has *enough* of that look in the shade. It's tousled, and falls in waves that are a slightly lighter chestnut than his fur. 

His face...

His *unreasonably* beautiful face...

The creature flares his nostrils and beams with what Treville would swear was honest joy. 

And then he sits up -- 

Treville raises his rapier -- 

But the creature only lifts a small bone flute and begins to play, and, as he moves, Treville can see the ethereal flash of chains at his throat, wrists, and ankles. It -- 

"Oh. Oh, that's bloody gorgeous," Porthos says, and looks *drunk* -- 

The creature narrows his eyes and plays more -- a slow, seductive tune that is absolutely hardening Treville's cock in his breeches -- and making Porthos *stagger* toward him. 

*Right*. The chains can wait. Treville shifts his ears back to human-form and *shoves* Porthos back -- 

Advances on the creature through what feels like a soft, delicious *wall* of *scent* -- 

The creature drops his flute and moves to stand -- but Treville has his rapier at his throat first. 

"What -- *what*?" Porthos sounds absolutely dazed, but -- 

"Good, you're coming out of it. Pick up that flute, Porthos. Get it out the creature's reach." 

"I am no creature!" 

Porthos moves back behind him -- not far enough -- with the flute -- 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Then what are you?" 

"*You* are poorly educated!" 

Treville raises his eyebrow higher. "Am I to believe that you're a faun...?" 

"Of *course* I am a faun! What else would I *be*." 

"Hmm. I can think of any number of shape-changers --" 

"So can I!" Porthos calls cheerfully. 

Treville shows his still-sharp teeth. "And quite a few of them can have spirit-magery under their belts." And chains leading very dangerous places, indeed...

The creature flushes under his thin cheek-fur and looks down -- but only for a moment. "I am *Aramis*. I am a *faun*. It is *true* that I used my spirit-magery on the two of you --" 

"Why." 

"I am getting to that!" 

"Faster, if you please," Treville says. 

The faun sniffs. "You are both under an *old* enchantment. I used my magery to bring you *to* me so I could *fix* it."

Treville blinks. "That was honest." 

"Uhh..." 

"You are insulting!" 

"What *price* did you mean to exact for freeing us from this enchantment, Aramis...?"

The faun -- *Aramis* -- flushes again. 

Well, then. Treville nods and sheathes his sword, then offers his hand. "Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the King's Musketeers. Let's negotiate." 

Aramis stares at Treville's hand as if he's never seen the like before. "You offer your hand to me *after* you know I meant to take something from you?" 

"I offered my hand to you after I knew you planned to be *honest* about that. Will you take it?" 

Aramis narrows his eyes in pure calculation -- 

Spends *time* in thought -- 

And then clasps Treville's arm like a soldier. "I will not lie to you," he says -- honestly. 

"I won't lie to you, either. Please don't enchant either of us without permission." 

"I will not!" 

Treville nods. "Porthos, give him back his flute, please." 

"You're sure about that, sir?"

Aramis growls -- 

Treville makes a soothing gesture for everyone's sake. "I can smell his honesty, Porthos. It's not like dealing with undead." 

"Right you are," Porthos says, and hands over the flute, just like that. 

Aramis gives Porthos a *hot* look -- 

And Porthos smiles wryly. "I have a *limited* number of reactions to people who try to enchant me right off the mark, mate." 

"I only wanted --" Aramis growls. 

"*What* did you want, Aramis? Let's discuss that," Treville says. 

Aramis stands straight, lifts his chin -- "*Both* of you felt desire for me when you saw me lounging on the tree -- when you smelled my good scents? It does not matter --"

"Oh fuck." 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"I meant to *help* you with this, so that we could *play*, and give each other *companionship*, without any of the foolish *hesitation* that humans constantly force each other to *suffer* through." And then Aramis raises an eyebrow.

Porthos and Treville share a look -- 

Porthos licks his lips with what looks like *utter* helplessness -- 

And this -- 

This is absolutely the sort of opportunity that Jason has taught him to take advantage of, in one way or another. Treville grins like the arsehole he is and turns back to Aramis. "Aramis. Son. I don't think either of us would object to sporting the afternoon away -- in one way or another --" 

"Oh my *God* --" 

"Belt up, Porthos --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"But Aramis, *again*, ask *first* before leveling enchantments." 

Aramis blinks -- 

Looks to Porthos -- 

Porthos is blinking rapidly -- and then he gives *himself* a shake and grins at Treville. "Really, sir, I love you. I just need you to know that." 

"I love you, too, son. You're a brilliant soldier and a wonderful man. Now let's talk things through a little more with Aramis." 

Porthos stares at him. He looks *stunned*. 

He looks -- 

He looks like his *Captain* had just said those words, and -- 

And Treville does not want that, whether or not he should. "Son." 

"Uh -- I -- yes, sir! Thank you, sir! I mean --" 

"Shh," Treville says, and checks -- yes, Aramis is watching this very closely, as well he should. Treville moves close to Porthos, and reaches up to cup his magnificent shoulders. "Son," he says again, "I'm just a man." 

"*Sir* --" 

"Shh, I know, I'm your Captain, and you can't help thinking about that at times like these, but I want you to know -- I *need* you to know -- that I'm *also* a man. Not even that -- I'm a *dog*. I like my lovers loose and sloppy, and I like *starting* them on their way there by bending them over and shoving my tongue up their arses --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"My *long* tongue, son," Treville says, and lolls it for a moment with his eyebrows up -- 

Porthos stares -- 

Treville puts his tongue away. "With women -- never girls for me, though I've loved making love with boys --" 

"Oh -- *yeah*?" 

"Absolutely, son. The mouthier the better. Young Aramis here will *not* be the first -- or even the twentieth -- youth I make love with -- " 

"Did you make love with them?" And Aramis's tone is both sharp and intensely *curious*. "Or did you *fuck* them?" 

Porthos looks like he wants to know, as well. 

Treville hums and thinks about Serge, Jean-Claude, Marc, Simon... and all the rest. He smiles. "I grew out of *fucking* people when I was still a boy myself, Aramis. I liked getting to know the boys I made love with, at least some, and letting them get to know me. Letting them know exactly what they were *getting*, so they could choose what they wanted." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "And they were old enough to do that choosing, sir...?" 

"Of course. Your boys weren't, son...?" 

Porthos coughs -- "No -- no -- I mean, yes! They were! I *never* went with a boy who didn't pick me, you know. Let me know in no uncertain *terms* that they wanted me. I felt too much like a predator if they didn't." 

Treville inhales -- and nods. "You spent too much time being treated like prey when *you* were a boy." 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "That's right, sir. Me *and* mine." 

Treville growls -- and he knows his eyes are gleaming -- 

"Oh -- sir, no, it's all right *now* --" 

"No. It isn't. My men are *important* to me, son --" 

"*But*..." And Porthos grins and waggles his eyebrows. "I'm not *supposed* to be thinking of you as the Captain right now, eh?" 

Treville coughs -- 

Checks on Aramis -- he's watching this with his head cocked to the side and an *acquisitive* look on his beautiful face, but -- 

"How are *you*, Aramis?" 

He blinks -- "I am well, Captain --" 

"Please, call me Treville." 

That gets him a *sly* look. "Will you say the same to your Porthos...?" 

Porthos makes a soft choking noise, which -- 

Hmm.

"Not right away, Aramis," Treville says, and gestures to the dead tree. 

"You wish me to sit?" 

"Let's get comfortable while we talk, hm?" 

Aramis makes a low, happy sound in his throat and sits, then pats the spaces beside himself.

The *smooth* spaces, now that Treville is paying attention. 

This clearing has been made ready for entertaining. 

He hums and sits on Aramis's right; Porthos takes the left. 

"What did you wish to discuss, Treville?" And those black fingers -- hard, strong, *deft* -- are on his thigh -- 

And Aramis's other hand is on *Porthos's* thigh -- 

Porthos licks his lips and grins --

And *both* he and Treville start petting those hands -- 

Aramis purrs -- "But tell me!" 

"I'm not sure how much you understand about human militaries, Aramis..." 

"Very much! I have studied!" And he massages their thighs -- 

"Oh, that's nice --" 

"Which, Porthos?" 

Porthos grins that wonderful grin -- 

Aramis looks a bit stunned -- 

"Both, Aramis. I like people who like to study." 

Aramis makes a sound that doesn't seem calculated in the *least* --

And Treville strokes along the length of Aramis's middle finger, over the back of his hand, down to his wrist, up his forearm -- 

He can't *feel* those chains, at all -- 

"Mm!" And Aramis shivers and stamps a little with one hoof -- 

He's not thinking about the chains. "I also enjoy... students, Aramis," Treville says, and leans in to sniff his cheek, his ear -- no, his jaw. Scent-glands *right* there. 

"I *love* to study. I study all the *time*. Ignorance is -- is -- do you want more of my scents? My good scents?" 

Porthos growls -- 

"Oh, yes --" 

Treville grips Aramis's wrist firmly, not painfully. "Not yet, Aramis. Porthos will lose control for that." 

"Oh -- fuck. Really, sir?" 

"Think about how hard you are now, when you've gotten *used* to the scents." 

Porthos groans. "I..." He laughs then, low and hungry and breathless. "Yeah, you're right. In fact..." And he pushes Aramis's hand closer to his knee. 

Aramis makes an unhappy noise -- 

"I *apologize*, mate. But we do still need to talk, eh?" 

"You are careful men..." 

Treville licks Aramis's jaw -- 

"Ai!" 

"We're not going to give you *any* reason to lash out in self-defense, lovely boy." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "It is true that I would do just this thing," Aramis says, and then *looks* at them -- 

"As you *should* if some pillock tries to take what you don't *want* him to take," Treville says -- 

"That's *right*. I wouldn't want you out here alone without being able to protect yourself, Aramis," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's hand very, very gently. 

Aramis makes another soft sound -- 

Leans toward Porthos -- 

Porthos strokes those softly-fuzzed cheeks -- "You're so beautiful, Aramis..." He licks his lips again. "I want your scents all over me." 

"Ohh. This is good!" 

Treville laughs quietly. "I wholeheartedly agree," he says, and takes the opportunity to sniff between Aramis's shoulder blades -- no, a little higher. 

Scent-glands right *there*. 

"What um. What do you like to study?" 

"All things! But especially animals and plants! A faun can learn much by asking the right questions of the right people -- Treville, will you lick *all* of my scent-glands?" 

Treville licks and licks -- "Probably. Which people do you ask?" 

Aramis purrs again. "Everyone! But especially the All-Mother." 

Treville blinks -- 

Porthos blinks -- 

"What? Why are you *surprised*? I am a *faun*!" 

"But uh. You're a *spirit*-mage, mate." 

"But I am *also* a faun," Aramis says, simple and sure, but... he's not looking at either of them. 

Not quite. 

"I speak often to the All-Mother --" 

"Aramis," Treville says, and lets his voice be just a little firm. 

Aramis frowns -- still not looking at either of them. "I have told you *no* lies." 

Porthos strokes Aramis's cheek. "But there's a secret here, and I think it might be a dark one --" 

"It is *my* secret, to give or not give as I see *fit*." 

"Aramis... if there's something we can do to help, I'd like to know," Treville says. 

*That* makes Aramis look at him -- 

*Study* him -- and nod. 

"I will think about it," he says, and *squeezes* both their thighs. "Now you will play with me!" 

"Oh shit." And Porthos laughs hard -- 

Treville grins. "At some point, I'd *like* to talk about the enchantment you found on the two of us --" 

"At some point, yes, later!" 

Porthos *snorts* --

Treville hums and cups Aramis's chin, turning him gently to face him. 

"What? What is it?" 

"Promise me one thing, little one." 

"What promise do you wish!" 

"That your secrets will not *hurt* us." 

"Oh!" And Aramis beams. "No pain, no hurt! I swear on the All-Mother that my secrets will not hurt you," he says, and nods. 

And there's something there that still... 

Jason had always warned him to be careful trusting the *perspective* of gods -- 

There are those *chains* -- 

But *Aramis* is no god, and that promise had been a *vow* that rooted Aramis right down through his *soul*, and -- 

Aramis is a boy, a beautiful, desirous boy when Treville had thought -- *known* -- that he would live the rest of his life *without* being able to *have* such wonder for himself -- 

Such joy -- 

There's all the whoring he and Jason do together, but he has to glamour himself, he has to -- 

He can never risk the *reputation* Laurent had built for him -- or the reputation of Trevilles on all those other *spheres*. But -- 

But that's not right now. Not in *this* moment, when he can lean in -- 

Rumble, rumble helplessly and lean *in* -- 

Aramis is smiling so *broadly* -- 

Butting at the air like an excited goat -- 

Treville catches Aramis's mouth with his own and kisses him, kisses him deeply, sweetly -- 

"Mm -- mm-hm, mm-hmm..." 

"*Fuck* -- I can't believe I'm watching this --" 

Treville opens his eyes and looks to Porthos -- 

"Uhh..." 

Treville narrows his eyes in an arsehole-grin and fucks Aramis's mouth with his tongue. Slowly. 

Aramis moans so hungrily -- 

Tightens his grip on their thighs -- 

"Oh, shit, sir..." 

Treville pulls back and *licks* Aramis's mouth -- 

So soft -- 

So sweet -- 

Aramis licks him back, short, sharp laps all over Treville's mouth -- 

"Fuck, that's so *hot*," Porthos says -- 

Treville hums and licks a path up along Aramis's cheek-fur. "Have you wanted to watch me making love with... someone, Porthos?" 

"*Yes*!" 

Treville coughs and pulls back, laughing -- 

"Look, I know you meant that as a tease, but -- no, wait, no ignoring Aramis --" 

"Oh, Porthos, I like you very much!" 

Porthos grins at Aramis again -- 

Aramis stares at him *hungrily* -- 

"Oh, you're so *beautiful*, Aramis --" 

"Kiss me!" 

"Right you are," Porthos says, leaning in to do just that. He makes it wet, soft, *filthy* -- 

And Treville has no doubt in his mind that he'd kissed Lucille's puckered little arsehole precisely the same way. Treville sighs happily.

Such a superior man. 

"Mm? Mm mm?" 

Porthos pulls back and licks his lips -- and Aramis's own -- "What's wrong, Aramis?" 

"I want to know why Treville is sighing! His scents are still happy and pleasured, but..." 

"Oh, I know that sigh," Porthos says, and grins again -- 

*Nuzzles* Aramis's cheek -- 

Aramis purrs and *scratches* their thighs -- 

"And you can do that whenever you *like*, precious --" 

"*Oh* --" 

Treville rumbles and nips Aramis's throat -- just once. 

"Ah --" 

"You know that sigh because, when I'm around *you*, I'm *capable* of becoming that happy, son." 

Porthos stares at him -- 

Grins like a boy -- 

"Sir..." 

Treville hums. "You've made the past two years *infinitely* more bearable than they otherwise would've been, son. It's been all I could do not to call you up to my office every day just to spend a little time with you." 

"Oh. Oh, sir..." 

Treville flares his nostrils -- Porthos's scents are rising. 

Treville nods. "You always make me happy, son. You always make me *smile*. You always remind me that my job is worth doing." 

"So um. Maybe it's all right that I've been tossing it to you from the beginning?"

("There will, of course, be the occasional man whose feelings for you as their Captain are more passionate than most --" 

"Oh -- *fuck*, Laurent!") 

And Laurent had smiled at him *meanly*. ("I'll leave it up to your remarkable discretion and discernment to decide *which* of those men -- if any -- you should actually besmirch your honour for.") 

"Or... is it?" 

"Son --" 

"I am very interested in the answer to this question!" And Aramis's eyes are wide and bright and avid. 

As golden as the sun, but no more inhuman in the emotions behind them than anyone. 

"Please answer!" 

Treville laughs helplessly and licks Aramis's cheek again -- 

Again -- 

Aramis purrs and butts him lightly. "Answer. Answer." And then he *looks* at Treville. 

Treville licks his lips. 

Porthos laughs hard. "You look like he *hit* you with something, sir." 

"Well, son, you can't *smell* him as well as I can -- also I can't seem to stop licking his scent-glands --" 

Porthos snorts -- 

"But, before Aramis *bludgeons* me with those horns --" 

"Which you would deserve!" 

"Which I would deserve," Treville says, and turns back to Porthos. "The only reason I *don't* want to watch while you toss yourself off to thoughts of me is because I've always preferred being a more active participant in that sort of thing." And he raises his eyebrows. 

"Oh, fuck." 

"Oh, yes! So honest! So rich and hot with honesty! More! More!" And Aramis cups Treville's *cock* through his trousers and breeches -- 

By Porthos's grunt, he'd just gotten the same treatment -- 

"Don't start rubbing, yet, Aramis," Treville says, and covers his hand again -- 

"Why not!" 

"We still need just a little more talk --" 

"*No*." 

"Unh -- yeah -- yeah, we do," Porthos says. "Just -- let's all say what we *want*, eh? So no one gets confused." 

"Everything! All things! Touch my horns!" 

"I will absolutely -- right at the base, like?" And Porthos starts rubbing at Aramis's left horn, right at the hairline -- 

Aramis gurgles and starts to rock back and forth -- 

His stiff cock thickens and lengthens out of its sheath -- 

"Oh, Aramis..." 

"Mm. Agreed," Treville says and starts working the other horn --

"Ai -- *ai*!" And Aramis throws his head back, butting and writhing and *obviously* fighting to keep his horns *right* where they can be touched and loved and massaged. 

His cock is *dripping* -- 

His scents are *rising* -- 

*Both* he and Porthos are gulping air --

"Is that good, precious? Do you like it just like that?" 

"Or do you want it harder? Mm?" 

Aramis whimpers and pumps his *hips* -- 

Treville can't stop himself from turning enough that he can grip one of those straining thighs *while* he works that horn -- 

Porthos is panting -- 

Turning enough that he can pet and stroke and molest Aramis's chest -- 

Aramis's scents *blanket* the clearing -- 

Treville hears himself *growling* -- 

"I can't -- I can't --" 

"What can't you do, son," Treville says, kenneling his dog *tight*. "I'm here to *help*." 

"I want to touch, to taste, to -- to bury my face in his *arse* --" 

Aramis pants, lolling his slightly-longer-than-human tongue -- "All is good! All is -- is -- touch me more, have me more! Please more!" 

Porthos *grips* his horn --

Aramis *bucks* -- 

"Tell us what you definitely *don't* want, Aramis," Treville says. "Tell us *now*, because you're about to get everything bloody *else*." 

Aramis *giggles* -- 

Wriggles and tugs himself *away* -- 

"Fuck -- what's wrong --" 

Treville gives himself a shake and tries to *focus* -- 

But Aramis is only trotting to another downed tree -- and reaching behind it for their saddlebags. 

Their *open* saddlebags.


	2. Overall, it's a damned good pastry.

"What the --" 

"Aramis." 

Aramis giggles more and sets the saddlebags down again. And then he pulls out their pomade, holding up both little pots and butting at the air eagerly. 

Porthos splutters -- 

Treville drags a hand down over his face -- but can do *nothing* about his smile -- 

And Aramis trots back to them with the pomade. "Oil is *better*. You should carry it," he says, and nods. 

"The Captain of the King's Musketeers doesn't pack like he's about to get his ashes hauled on manoeuvres, Aramis." 

"Why not?" 

"I --" 

"Yeah, sir, why not?" 

Treville stares -- 

Thinks about it -- 

"You're both absolutely right; you never know when you'll meet a gorgeous faun in the middle of the woods who'll make you admit that you desperately want to fuck both him and your ridiculously competent subordinate." 

Aramis beams and moves both little pots to one hand, beckoning both of them to a space cleared of dead leaves, stones, and twigs. There's a bit of grass growing, and wildflowers, and Porthos is already stripping off. 

"Excellent initiative, son," Treville says, and joins him. 

"I do try, sir," Porthos says, setting his belts down and working on his boots and socks. "About that fucking." 

"Mm?" 

Aramis is juggling the pots of pomade -- 

Dancing on his hooves -- 

Beaming and twitching his little tail -- 

"Uhh..." 

"Steady on, son." 

"I think my cock is about to run away and marry Aramis, sir." 

Treville grunts. "My own cock sympathizes, son." 

Aramis giggles more -- 

Turns and bends over -- 

Twitches his tail like he plans to bewitch them with it -- 

It's working -- 

It's working exceedingly *well* -- 

Treville gives himself a shake -- 

Porthos *shoves* his trousers and breeches down -- 

"You should be gentler to that beautiful cock, son," Treville says, and takes care of his own trousers and breeches -- 

"Can't do that, sir." 

"No, son?" 

"If I'm any nicer to my cock right now, I'm shooting all over the flowers." 

"Oh, son. Aim at *his* cock." 

"*Shit*." 

Aramis stands straight and purrs and trots close to Porthos. "You will mark me? Animal and fresh?" 

Porthos looks, very much, like Aramis had hit him with one of the dead trees. 

"Tunic, son. Get rid of that tunic." 

"Right you are!" And Porthos's voice cracks like a boy's as he continues to strip. 

*Treville* is naked -- 

And Aramis sets the pots of pomade down and trots right over, cupping and stroking Treville's cock with his hard, black hands. "So big! So wet!"

"That's right, son. Do you like it?" 

Aramis purses his lips and cocks his head to the side. 

Treville hums. "You *don't* like it?" 

"*Porthos* has called me 'precious'. *You* have now called me 'son'. Do you mean these things?" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says fervently, and there's no time to be an arsehole by hesitating. 

Treville cups Aramis's cheek. "I always wind up feeling at least a little... paternal about the young men I make love with." 

"Even before you make love?" 

"Sometimes especially then. But if you don't want it --" 

"Show me how to be your son!" 

Treville growls -- 

Pushes a hand into Aramis's hair, making sure to drag his fingers against Aramis's horn -- 

Cups his hip with his other hand -- "Should Porthos show you how to be his precious?" 

Aramis parts his lips -- 

Looks to Porthos with heavy-lidded eyes -- 

And Porthos is naked, too. Dripping.

Aramis purrs. "Show me. Teach me. Teach me everything!" 

Treville rumbles and looks to Porthos. "Follow my lead for the moment...?" 

"Absolutely, sir." 

Treville walks Aramis further onto the little green, then eases them down to their knees. He strokes them as he urges Aramis onto his lap -- 

Scratches through the fur -- 

"How's this, son?" 

"This is *good*!" 

"You're comfortable?" 

"You are warm, and hard, and *hot* and *hard*." 

"Right, well, I no longer know where I want to be in that pastry." 

Treville grins. "But you're following my *lead*, son," he says, and strokes Aramis's hips before lifting him a little -- 

"Oh --" 

"Why don't you give your precious something nice to rest on." 

Porthos groans. "I -- fuck -- I can't even remotely say no to that," he says, and settles in close immediately, wrapping one arm around Aramis's waist and the other around *Treville's*, squeezing them *tight* -- 

Treville *grunts* -- 

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" 

"*Fuck* -- your little *tail* --" 

"Tickling your cock, son?" 

"Yeah -- oh, *yeah* --" And Porthos *thrusts* against Aramis's back and arse --

"Ah! Between! Please!" 

Porthos groans and moves his hands, obviously nestling himself in -- 

Aramis beams, scents rising and rising and making them all *drunk* -- 

And Treville needs to spend before he does something untoward. 

He grips Aramis's hips -- "Hold Aramis *tight*, son." 

"Not -- not a *problem*," Porthos says, and gets his arms back in position -- 

Aramis moans -- 

Moans *high* -- 

"Thrust *now*, son," Treville says -- 

Porthos *obeys* -- 

"*Ahn* --"

Treville thrusts against Aramis's cock as he's pulling *back* -- 

"AHN* --" 

"*Again*, Porthos --" 

"Yes, sir, *yes*, sir," Porthos says, obeying -- 

And Treville thrusts on Porthos's backstroke -- 

"Please, yes!" 

"Oh, precious, you feel so good, so *sweet* --" 

Treville growls, and they've got the rhythm now, they've -- 

They *have* Aramis, and his eyes are wide, and his mouth is open, and he's grunting for every thrust, one coughed-out needy *push* of sound for every stroke, every -- 

Every -- "Oh, son, oh, son, you take this so *well* --" 

"I want it!" 

"It's yours, precious, it's *yours* -- oh, I love your *fur* -- HNH --" And Porthos bucks and *loses* the rhythm -- 

"What -- what did he do --" 

"He's *working* his tail, he's -- oh, fuck, sir, *sir* --" 

"You can take it, son. You can take it and give your precious what he *needs*." 

"*Fuck*," Porthos says, growling and biting the back of Aramis's neck -- 

Aramis *yells* -- 

*Writhes* between them -- 

Treville's cock *spits* slick all over Aramis's cock and furry belly -- but Porthos has the rhythm again, Porthos is giving it to Aramis just -- 

So perfectly, so beautifully, and Treville has to do the same, has to show Aramis how good it can be, how wonderful, how *sweet* -- 

He *always* takes care of his boys -- 

For just as long as they *let* him -- 

Aramis throws his head back and lets out a juddering cry, helpless and loud and beautiful, animal, *beautiful* -- 

Porthos *growls* and clutches them both *tighter* -- 

Ruts fast -- 

*Fast* -- 

Treville gives it to Aramis just as fast -- 

Aramis *screams*, quieting the whole forest, and spurts hot and *slick* all over Treville's chest and belly and *cock* -- 

"That's it, son, that's -- that's just perfect --" 

Porthos breaks the bite -- "Those *scents* -- those --" He *snarls* and bites Aramis *again* -- 

Aramis *spurts* again -- 

Treville forces Aramis to *grind* by the grip he has on Aramis's hips -- 

Porthos *gasps* -- 

His yell *becomes* a howl that makes Treville's *ears* twitch -- and then the clearing fills with the scents of *his* spend, his hot spend -- 

Treville growls *needily* and kisses Aramis, licks him, licks him all over his face, before he yanks Porthos close and bites his *mouth* -- 

"HNH -- oh, *fuck* --" 

"Yes! Yes! More spend! So hot!" And Aramis reaches back and gathers spend on his fingers, sucks and licks and slurps it up -- 

Shoves back and *away* from Treville just enough to get his hands between them, and then starts tossing Treville off with a *ferocious* smile on his face. 

Treville pants and pants and *grins*. "Handled. Handled a few cocks in your time, son?" 

"Many!" 

Porthos laughs -- "And the ladies, precious? Do you like them, too?" 

"Oh, yes, oh, yes! My cock was not always big enough to please, but I could make them enjoy my fingers and tongue!"

"That's *right*," Treville says, and strokes Aramis's horns -- 

"Ah -- ah --" 

"Oi, don't hog *both* of them --" 

Treville laughs hard and surrenders the right horn to Porthos -- 

"Thank you *very* much, sir," Porthos says, and starts to rub and stroke and molest while Treville does the exact same things to the left horn -- 

"Yes -- yesss..." And Aramis's tongue is sticking out -- 

His still-hard cock is jerking -- 

He squeezes Treville's cock *hard* with both hands -- 

Treville *grunts* -- "Beautiful, son, beautiful -- stroke just that hard, just -- " And Treville croons and tosses his head -- 

Fucks up *into* those hard hands -- 

Up and up and -- 

"Say there, sir." 

"Yes -- yes, Porthos?" 

"What happens if he touches that knot of yours?" 

"Oh fuck --" 

Aramis *grips* Treville's knot and squeezes *viciously* -- 

Squeezes like *Laurent* used to -- 

Treville is *howling* -- 

Aramis is butting at the air in pure excitement and *joy* -- 

Porthos is laughing his *arse* off -- 

And then Porthos twines his fingers with Aramis's on Treville's shaft -- 

"Here you go, sir," he says, and tosses him off *exactly* like he's given *thought* to the matter, like the *problem* of *how* to toss Treville off has kept him *wakeful* of an evening, and Treville can't think, can't do more than *gasp* between *howls* -- 

Aramis is still pumping his *knot* -- 

"We're licking precious clean after this, right?" 

"NNH --" And Treville spurts all over Aramis's chest -- 

His chin and *mouth* -- 

He licks his *lips* -- 

He grins *ferociously* again -- 

"Nicely *done*, sir --" 

Treville keeps *spurting* -- 

Porthos and Aramis are *milking* him -- 

Treville croons and leans in to lick Aramis's face again -- 

He's still *spurting* -- 

"Right, now I'm feeling a bit inadequate..." 

Treville coughs a laugh in Aramis's *ear* -- 

"Daddy! No!" 

"Oh *fuck*," Treville says, and spurts again -- 

Porthos *wheezes* laughter. "And nicely done to you, too, precious," he says, and leans over Aramis's shoulder to lick his mouth. 

"Mm! I thank you!" And he squeezes Treville one more time -- 

Treville croons and slumps. 

"No more, sir? Are you *sure*." 

Treville gestures. 

Porthos snickers. "Do you *always* spend like that?" 

"The All-Mother likes to --" Treville pants and licks his lips -- 

And Aramis's cheek -- 

And Porthos's mouth -- 

"Oh -- mm, yeah -- I want --" 

Treville *kisses* Porthos, making it as deep and thorough as the dog in him will allow. But...

Porthos shivers and starts licking him even before *Treville* has to stop kissing, licking all over his mouth, his chin, his jaw -- "Sorry, sorry, I -- fuck, you feel so good on my *tongue* --" 

"You feel perfect on *mine*. But I was saying something," Treville says, licking that tongue on more time before leaning back and licking around the bases of Aramis's horns -- 

"Ai! *AI*!" 

"Delicious little one," Treville says, and fumbles a little with Porthos until they've got their arms situated around Aramis and each other. 

Aramis purrs and hugs them with one arm each -- his shoulders are double-jointed. 

Treville licks those, too. 

Porthos laughs at him. "You were *saying*? About the All-Mother?" 

"Right you are, son. The All-Mother likes to leave Her children *eminently* prepared to produce more children for Her. At *all* times. She can't make the females ripe much more often than they'd normally be without hurting them, but She can make the males... ah... productive." 

Porthos bites the tip of his tongue. "You've about nineteen curses on you from whoever does your laundry *alone*, don't you." 

"Almost certainly, son. The All-Mother hasn't the foggiest clue why I don't go around naked more often, but She knows witches are choosy and temperamental, and goes with it."

Porthos splutters. 

"Naked is better," Aramis says, and nods sagely. 

"Not all of us have fur like yours, precious." 

"*Daddy* does." 

"Oh, fuck." 

Porthos snickers. "You're going to lose it *every* time he calls you that, aren't you." 

"... yes." 

Porthos laughs *hard*, moving all of them -- 

Aramis purrs and purrs -- "What is your dog like, Daddy?" 

"Big, serious-minded, and exceedingly eager to mount both of you, at the moment." 

Porthos stares at him. 

Aramis grins at him. And wriggles. 

"Don't do that when I say things like that, son." 

"You should not deny your dog, your good, wild dog --" 

"We're changing the subject." 

"No!" 

"*Yes*," Treville says firmly, "because I *only* let my dog mount when there's oil." 

"You should have oil all the time!" 

The dog agrees. Pointedly. "The dog agrees with you, son. And I will *absolutely* do better about that." 

Aramis just brushes Treville's chest with the tips of his hard fingers, looking down. 

Porthos shakes himself out of his daze and frowns. "Aramis?" 

"Oh, son, what's wrong?" 

Aramis *starts* to shake his head -- and then looks up. "I would like you to... come back. Both of you." 

Porthos grins wide -- and looks to him.

Treville strokes Aramis's cheeks. "We'd certainly love to see you again, son... but we're not sure where we *are*," he says, smiling and raising his eyebrows. 

Aramis blinks -- "We are not far from the rest of your men, Treville! We are -- this clearing is on a different sphere, a different -- you know this magic? You know how it works?" 

Treville nods and strokes Aramis firmly. "I do, son. Are you saying you'd bring us here if we went back to that patch of woods?" 

"Or -- or any woods! If you *look* for me, I will *find* you." 

Treville rumbles. "I've always enjoyed spending time in the woods..." 

Aramis beams and turns to Porthos -- 

Porthos kisses the base of his horn -- 

"Oh --" 

"I'd love to see you again and again and *again*, precious," Porthos says, and kisses Aramis's pointed little ear -- 

"Mm --" 

"I don't have a lover," Porthos says, and *licks* Aramis's ear over and over -- 

Treville rumbles and leans in to *nip* Aramis's other ear -- 

"Ah!" 

"I would very much like," Treville says, and nips Aramis again -- 

"Oh, yes, yes -- what would you like!" 

"To introduce *both* of you to my lover. My *brother*." 

"Oh -- *fuck*. Uh. Sir?" 

Treville grins. "Jason is a wonderful man, sons -- and he would *vastly* appreciate the two of you." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "In *every* way, sir?" 

Treville lolls his tongue -- 

And Aramis shudders hard and clutches Treville's shoulders. "You -- Daddy, you and Porthos should be close, should always be *close* --" 

"When we're not close to you? Mm?" And Treville sucks his little earlobe -- 

Aramis's scents rise -- 

His cock jerks and *jerks* -- 

Porthos *growls* -- "Love the way you feel, love the way you smell, love the way you *taste* --" 

Treville licks against the grain of the fur on Aramis's cheek. "You're driving him mad, little one..." 

"But -- but not *you* --" 

"I have my suspicions about that," Treville says, and nips Aramis's lips -- 

"Oh, yes? Tell me!" 

Porthos *stops* suckling the side of Aramis's throat -- "Tell *us*, sir. I promise I'm still paying attention," he says, and then goes right back to suckling. 

Aramis pants and *presses* himself back against Porthos -- 

Treville grins. "Beautiful. I need to see more before I'm sure enough to make any sort of judgment call --" 

"That is very -- very frustrating!" 

"Mm-hmm," Porthos says, and he sounds blissful as he strokes through Aramis's sticky fur to get to his cock again -- 

"Oh, yes!" 

Porthos pauses and grips Treville's cock *against* Aramis's -- 

Aramis purrs -- 

Treville gasps a laugh -- "Weren't we supposed to be licking our lovely little boy clean, son?" 

Porthos bites the side of Aramis's throat -- 

Aramis whimpers and *shoves* into Porthos's fist -- 

Treville growls and twines his fingers with Porthos's -- "Not that I have *any* objections to this, sons --" 

"Please, please, please keep touching, keep tasting --" 

Porthos licks all over Aramis's face -- 

Uses his other hand to swipe up the mingled spend on Aramis's chest and belly -- 

"Oh, Porthos, will you suck?" 

"We *both* will," he says, and pushes his fingers gently into Aramis's mouth -- 

"MMmm..." 

Pulls out and *takes* a kiss, a hard kiss, a *filthy* kiss, a *needy* kiss -- 

Porthos is *devouring* Aramis's mouth, biting and licking and sucking -- and sucking down his spend. 

Treville's spend, as well, but...

But. 

There is a quiet enchantment happening here -- the simple and not at *all* simple magery of shared bodily fluids, given freely, taken willingly. *Eagerly*. 

Given by a boy who very much desires the man who is taking them. The soft-hearted, loving...

And yes, this is dangerous, but it would also be pointless to put a stop to it. Porthos's reactions to Aramis were just too strong for a human, too intense, too... certain, right from the beginning -- even with the hiccough of him pausing before returning Aramis's flute. 

He'd been hard before Aramis started to play. 

Right now, Porthos's hands are shaking. Both the one twined with Treville's own on Aramis's and Treville's cocks and the one gripping Aramis's slim throat. 

He can't seem to make himself stop *drinking* from Aramis's mouth like it holds *nectar* -- 

They're *lapping* at each other -- 

Aramis has pushed one hand up into Porthos's curls -- 

He's gripping and moaning and bouncing -- 

He's lost even the few small cautions he was showing with them, offering his *vulnerability* --

Because, somehow, Aramis is Porthos's mate. 

The All-Mother strokes him from the inside, not quite tugging on his spirit -- She trusts him to handle himself in this situation -- but asking for his attention.


	3. It's pretty much always a good idea to keep an open mind around Aramis.

He gives it to Her -- it's not as difficult as it could be, given that Porthos isn't stroking him anymore. 

Porthos is shaking all *over* -- 

And the All-Mother fills him with the knowledge that *both* Porthos and Aramis need to know what's happening to them. 

That... Aramis doesn't know?

The knowledge comes: He hasn't asked. 

That's... odd. 

The knowledge comes: Aramis is sometimes a very reckless boy, and doesn't mind his Mother.

The knowledge comes with a *look*. 

Treville hums. Noted, Mother. I'll tell them. Anything else? 

She strokes all through him again -- 

Again -- 

She fills him with Her love, Her approval of everything he's doing, Her approval of everything he *is*, and -- 

And, as always, it's huge, hot, *wild* -- 

Treville is even *harder* -- 

Mother, this won't -- this won't help me keep my *control* -- 

The knowledge comes: Treville will need to keep an open mind, and an open heart, the way he always does. That is all. 

Treville blinks -- 

And then the All-Mother slips from inside him, leaving him strong and *vital* and -- deeply aroused. 

Which is a problem he's going to have to take care of *himself*, but that's part of being an adult. 

Now if he can just figure out *how* to be an adult... Treville grins and takes Porthos's slack, shaking hand off his cock -- 

"Mm -- fuck --" And that was slurred into Aramis's swollen mouth -- 

*Porthos's* mouth is swollen -- 

"What? What is it? Kiss me more! Bite me more!" 

Porthos growls low, flat, *animal* -- 

Treville's *ears* twitch -- no, think about that mystery later -- 

"I'm sorry, little precious, but we're not -- not doing this right," Porthos says, sitting up straight and giving himself a shake. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm not usually --" 

"Shh. It's all right, son. You can go *right* back to making love with Aramis in just a moment. I just need to tell you both something. Give yourself another shake. Aramis, why don't you do the same?" 

Aramis blinks rapidly and licks his soft lips -- 

He looks dazed, utterly *confused* -- and then he *focuses*, just like that, pupils narrowing just a little even as he narrows his *eyes*. "What has *happened* to me? I was making love with *both* of you!" 

"That's what I want to know! I'm not -- I don't *do* this when I make love to more than one person at a time. *Especially* not when I *really* want both people!" 

Treville laughs quietly. "That's warming, son, but --" 

"Don't be *warmed*, sir! I've been tossing it to you practically since I *joined* the regiment!"

Treville blinks -- but. Porthos did *say* as much not even an hour ago.

Treville licks his lips -- 

*Regroups* -- 

And *stops* the hands reaching for his tackle.

"Daddy!" 

"*Sir* --" 

"Easy, *easy*," Treville says, and squeezes their wrists just a little firmly. "You have to let me tell you what the *All-Mother* just *told* me to tell you," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

They blink at him. 

Treville nods. "I'll be brief: you're mates. You haven't *completed* the mating, yet, but given the amount of bodily fluids you've been sharing, you're well on your way to doing so. At this point, there's nothing you can do about it, and you absolutely shouldn't *try* to do anything about it -- other than completing the mating." 

They stare at him. 

Porthos blinks. 

Aramis frowns and licks his lips -- his pupils dilate just a little -- 

His scents rise -- 

"Fuck, oh, fuck, precious, don't --" 

Aramis blinks and *focuses* -- "I am sorry, Porthos! I am sorry, Daddy!" 

Treville laughs ruefully. "That's not going to get any less affecting. And it's *all right*. You need each other. We're just going to have to figure out the best possible ways to make sure you can have each other *all the time*." 

"Oh... yeah..." And Porthos's eyes are hot as he cups Aramis's hips -- 

But Aramis is looking away from both of them.

Treville lifts his nose, and, yes, through all the hunger and *musk*, he can smell a need that has nothing to do with sex, and a great *deal* of worry and shame. He cups Aramis's chin and lifts his face -- 

And Porthos nuzzles his ear. "I can tell something's wrong, precious. I'm not sure how. I can just... taste it a little. You taste so *perfect*." 

"Porthos..." 

"You don't *have* to tell us, son," Treville says. "But I think you know that it's better to be honest with your mate." 

For a moment, the scents of *misery* rise -- 

Treville snorts air out of his nose -- 

Porthos growls -- 

And Aramis's ears droop. "Please do not ask me, yet." 

"Son --" 

"Please give me -- give me more of your companionship, more of your good companionship, and I will --" 

Treville raises a hand -- 

"*Please* --" 

"Sir...?" 

Treville lifts his nose for the scents of different musk on the air, for the scents of rueful amusement, for the scents of -- 

Something familiar? 

Something... 

But he doesn't know, and nothing truly becomes clear when another young faun walks gracefully into the clearing. This one is dark, with less contrast between his fur and his black hands and hooves. 

His fur is a little more shaggy than Aramis's, and his eyes are a piercing, intelligent, *familiar* blue. 

Treville flares his nostrils -- 

Tries to understand the *drives* telling him the *scents* are familiar -- 

But. 

The faun's jawline is familiar, too, and so is the shape of his scarred mouth. 

He -- 

This isn't *possible* -- 

This isn't -- 

Treville is growling under his breath because he can't *stop* himself, but this isn't *possible* -- 

"Sir...? What's wrong? And -- Aramis, is that your... brother?" 

"He is my brother, yes, though not by blood. I..." And Aramis trails off -- 

And Treville *stares* -- 

And the other faun stares back. There is a wryness to the expression on his handsome face, his beautiful -- 

Oh...

Treville staggers to his feet and moves across the clearing to the boy, wanting his clothes, wanting --

Wanting the *years* back -- 

*Laurent* -- 

No, no, he mustn't assume, he mustn't -- 

But -- the All-Mother had told him to keep an open mind and an open heart. 

His mind is shouting at him. His heart is thundering. And his hands are reaching for the face of the boy he'd last seen in Marie-Angelique's arms a generation ago. 

*This* boy looks to only be an adolescent, but the dead changeling that had been left in his crib... 

The dead changeling that had worn his face and form so *perfectly*, down to the mole beneath his left ankle...

Treville had wanted to disbelieve his senses. 

Treville had wanted to do *anything* but tell his pack that their Olivier had been kidnapped by the Fair Folk -- kidnapped because of enemies *Treville* had made in his search for Amina and *their* unnamed babe. 

In the end, he'd been honest, of course.

He'd seen the frozen *hollowness* in his soul reflected in Laurent's and Marie-Angelique's eyes -- 

They'd both forgiven him -- somehow. *Somehow*. Forgiven him and *kept* him in their lives, their homes, their *hearts*. Kept him as *pack*, despite that horrible *loss* -- 

And Treville has spent the past *generation* stealing every possible moment -- with Jason at his side and without -- to hunt for everything and everyone they've lost. 

But here, now -- 

Somehow --

Treville cups the boy's face. "Son. Do you know your human name?"

The boy looks up at him with those wide, beautiful eyes -- 

Even now, they're still a *blend* of Laurent's rampant intellectualism and Marie-Angelique's *steel* -- 

He -- 

"It's all right if you *don't* know --" 

"I've been told that my human name is Olivier d'Athos de la Fère," the boy says, *Olivier* says -- 

His voice is quiet and just a little low -- 

*Controlled* and *careful* -- 

It says so *much* -- 

It says so much about the *chains* on him -- no.

Treville can't make *assumptions*. "Oh, son -- I -- what do *you* like to be called?" 

"That matters to you?" 

"You're my *godson*."

Olivier bares his teeth as if Treville had shown a weapon -- oh. Oh. 

"Son, no, I -- I'm no Christian. I'm a witch, a shifter. I'm the All-Mother's child, just like you. As far as I'm concerned, you're my child through *Her*." 

Olivier studies him -- 

Flares his nostrils -- 

And nods. "I prefer Athos. And... you prefer Treville?"

Treville smiles helplessly, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Oh, son -- Athos. *Athos*. You can call me whatever you *want* to call me. But yes, I generally prefer --" 

Quick and neat, *Athos* swipes the tears from Treville's cheeks, and sniffs them.

Tastes them with his pink tongue -- 

Looks to *Aramis* -- 

"They are *good* men, brother," Aramis says. 

"You've hardly tested them, at all --" 

"I did not *have* to." 

"Well, I suppose you are *mated* to one of -- what will this mean, brother?" 

Aramis blushes, and the two boys share a long look that neither he nor Porthos is invited to.

They wait them out, and, eventually, Athos nods and moves gracefully to offer Porthos his arm. 

Porthos reaches up to take it. "Porthos. It's good to meet you --" 

"Is it?" And Athos clasps Porthos's arm. 

"Uhh. Yes? Yes. I trust Treville's opinions of people. And any man Aramis calls brother is someone I *very* much want to know." 

"Even if that brother has been his lover?" 

Porthos coughs into his other fist -- and smiles. "I've had my own brothers -- and sisters -- who've been my lovers, mate. Sometimes all at once. But we should talk more about that --" 

"No, that was reassuring, and reassuringly honest," Athos says, releasing Porthos and stepping back. 

Porthos blinks -- 

Right. Treville waves Porthos away from Aramis -- and to his feet. 

"That's a heartbreaking gesture, sir." 

Treville laughs and wipes a few tears away. "I need your concentration, son. I have to *explain* a few things to you." 

"Right you --" 

Aramis *grips* Porthos's wrists and holds him close. "What is to explain? Treville has found his godson, and now will see him all the time, and tell him all about his family." 

"Oh -- I want that," Athos says and stares at Treville with naked *hunger*. 

"*I* want more of my Porthos --" 

"Shit --" 

"And more of my Daddy, but it is important to share and share equally with one's brothers --"

Treville stares helplessly -- 

Athos hums -- 

Porthos *snickers* -- 

And Aramis picks up one of the pots of pomade -- 

"*Shit* --" 

"We will discuss all the important things when it is time to discuss them --" 

Treville growls.

Aramis freezes -- and doesn't look at him. 

"Aramis. What are you hiding? Let's just get everything out in the open so we won't have anything *weighing* on us all today -- or ever. We won't desert the two of you. We *can't* --"

And then there are two hard fingers on the back of his hand. Athos is there, looking up at him with his wide, blue eyes. 

"Athos --" 

"Treville. Some secrets must be kept... for now. I trust my brother about this implicitly, and I am asking you to do the same." 

And that...

Open mind, open heart. 

Treville takes a breath -- and nods. 

Athos smiles up at him so *hopefully* -- 

Porthos is still looking to him for confirmation -- 

Treville nods to him. 

"Yes, sir?" 

Treville smiles filthily. "Show Aramis how we do things in the King's Musketeers, son." 

"Right, well, you just gave me a *hopeless* fantasy about you tucking me in with incredibly sticky bedtime stories every night, and I never knew you were a *cruel* man, sir, but --" 

Aramis giggles -- 

Athos laughs quietly -- 

Porthos rolls Aramis down onto his back -- 

"Oh, yes!"

And Athos is watching them closely, hungrily, *studyingly* -- 

His nostrils are flaring -- 

His tail is twitching and he's pawing at the ground with one hoof -- and then, just that quickly, he nods, stills himself, and turns to Treville. "Will you speak with me now?" 

His *godson* -- 

After all this *time* -- 

"Happily, son," Treville says, and does nothing about the fact that his eyes are growing damp again.


	4. If you ask Treville a question with a yes-or-no answer, he may very well hand you a blue book. The impenetrability of the essays -- and the number of blue books -- increases proportionate to how much he likes you. Sorry about that.

"And what will you do to me with me helpless on my back, mm?" 

Porthos laughs and looks Aramis over from the curves of those beautiful horns to the points of those sharp little hooves. 

Beautiful. *Beautiful*. 

His, if he does this right -- 

"Well? Answer!" And Aramis butts at the air. 

"I um. I know... a little about mating," Porthos says, and licks his lips. 

"Yes? You are a very well-educated man! Now answer --" 

"I know... we'll be each other's. *For* each other. Completely. Forever." 

Aramis parts his lips -- 

Flushes under that *fur* -- 

His eyes shutter, just a little. 

Porthos nods. "You never thought about anything like that, maybe?" 

"I..." 

"How old *are* you --" 

"It does not *matter* --" 

"It does to me, Aramis," Porthos says, and kisses his forehead. "I need to do right by you. I *need* that." 

Aramis makes a soft sound -- 

Reaches up with those hard, black fingers -- he doesn't quite touch Porthos's face. 

Porthos catches his hand in his own and squeezes. "Tell me what you're thinking, please." 

"Why..." 

"Mm?" 

Aramis growls a little and frowns *hard*. 

"Aramis?" 

"Why are you not more *upset*? Why aren't you -- you --"

"I came up around witches, like I was telling Treville. I was trained in this stuff --" 

"I." 

"Mm?"

Aramis flushes and shakes his head once, glaring up at him. "The fact that you know what all of this *is* does *not* mean you should be -- be -- *unaffected*!" 

"I'm not --" 

"You *are*!" 

"I'm affected by *you*, precious. You..." Porthos licks his own lips. "I'm drunk on you, and I never. Never want to be sober again." 

"Oh." 

Porthos brings Aramis's hand to his mouth and kisses the palm. "Though, really, my Mum did *say* that if I was *lucky* I'd get to have a mate one day --" 

"Oh! Yes?" 

"Mm." And Porthos kisses Aramis's palm again, and again -- 

"Tell me more!" 

"It was -- mm. Her last story, love. Before she died, when I was five --" 

"Oh, no --" 

"Shh. It's -- it's not all *right*, but it's important that you *know* this," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's wrist -- 

That feels and *tastes* and *feels* bloody fantastic, so he does it several more times -- 

Just -- 

That *fur* -- 

"Porthos --" 

"Right, right --" He puts his tongue away, and looks deep into those golden eyes. "She was telling me about her friends. About her *family*. She was telling me, again, about how I shouldn't *bother* to try to have friends unless they *were* my family --" 

"Oh! Yes! She was very wise!" 

"That she was --" 

"And you speak like Daddy!" 

"That's because I want to be him when I grow up," Porthos says, and winks -- and means it with all of himself. 

"*Porthos*!" 

"But I was saying -- she was talking about her family, her *brothers*. She said at first there were just three of them, and then, after a while, there was another brother and a *sister*, too," he says, and -- shivers. "She didn't -- she didn't get a chance to tell me about them." 

"Oh... no?" 

"No. But -- but she told me about the first three. How one was tall, and red-headed, and utterly mad, and pretty as anything, and always after all the pretty girls; and how another was tall as a *tree*, and just *huge*, and had a laugh that would shake the whole *world* --" 

"Oh! I like this thing!" 

"Yeah, eh? I could imagine it just -- in her eyes. I could feel that she loved it. She said that brother was the most cuddly man she'd ever known, and warm and loving as anything, and that if it wasn't for the *third* brother, she would've snatched the second one right up and married him." 

"Who was the third brother?" And Aramis is searching him now, avid and hungrier than Porthos would've expected. 

It's almost as though there's something *in* this tale that he *specifically* needs to hear, needs to *know*, but -- 

But he's Porthos's mate, and Porthos is his. They have to know *everything* -- 

"Porthos Porthos --" 

That. Porthos shivers for the memory of his Mum's fever-bright eyes, but -- "She told me that the third brother was her *mate*. She said he wasn't too tall, and he wasn't too pretty, but he had all the best laughs, and made her laugh all the time, at the most ridiculous and horrible things at *once*, and was *beautiful*, and made her feel like she was the most beautiful woman in all the spheres, and just..." 

"Tell me! Tell me!" And Aramis butts at the air to punctuate his words -- 

Porthos sighs and smiles. "It was in her eyes, you know? That this man -- whoever he was -- was *everything* warm and right and good and perfect, and made *her* feel all those things, and still *did* make her feel all those things, even though he wasn't there." 

"Ohh..." 

"She told me that if I was very lucky, I would have someone like that. A *mate* like that. So, you know, when the man I trust most in the *world* tells me that I do, and tells me that it's literally the most beautiful person I've ever met in my *life*... I'm going to be pretty thrilled about things." 

And Aramis beams -- 

Beams like a *young* boy -- 

Beams and nods and makes juddery little pleased sounds --

Porthos leans in for a kiss because he *needs* to -- but then Aramis sits up and pushes him back -- 

Which is *tragic* -- 

"No, no -- I -- my Porthos, I *apologize*, but --" 

"Son. I..." And Treville is right there, looming over both of them. He's got a *grip* on that Athos's shoulder, but he's staring at *Porthos*, with his eyes wide and full and *bleak*. 

"Sir...?" 

"Son. Your." He swallows. 

"Sir, are you --" 

"Your mother's mate. Did she. Did she say anything *else* about him."

And that's *confusing*, but -- 

But Aramis is gripping his arm with one hand and his jaw with the other -- "My Porthos." 

"Aramis, love, precious, wait one --" 

"Please look at me. Please now." 

Porthos blinks and turns immediately -- and Aramis's eyes are wide and bright and warm and full. 

Beautiful suns for him to gaze into, and be loved by -- 

"Oh, yes, my Porthos, always and always. But now you must --" 

"Think. I have to think about things I haven't. Like about the details of my Mum's last story. And -- I should share them with everyone. That would be good, right?" 

"*Yes*, my Porthos --" 

Treville growls -- "*Aramis* --" 

"'s all right, sir," Porthos says, and turns to smile at Treville. "I know Aramis was enchanting me. He had to, didn't he?" 

And Treville is staring at both of them now, wild-eyed and tense -- 

His eyes are *gleaming* -- 

He's almost *snarling* -- 

"It's all *right*, sir," Porthos says, standing and moving close. "This is the enchantment that was on us *before* we got here, eh? Aramis was just *breaking* it." 

"I -- I *know*," Treville says, and he lifts his nose -- 

Flares his nostrils -- 

*Pants* -- "Please *tell* me --" 

"She said -- and I mostly didn't think about this memory because it hurt too much, because she died so soon after --" 

"*Fuck*, son --" 

"She said her brothers -- her *loves* -- were *soldiers*, sir. *Musketeers* --" 

Treville barks *high* --

"She said I had a *true* father out there somewhere, and that we'd been separated by dark magic --" 

And Treville clutches Porthos's shoulder with the hand he's not holding Athos with.

Porthos breathes -- and nods. And smiles. "I'm glad it's you, sir. When I *did* think about the story, you know, when I couldn't stop myself... well, I had this really *ridiculous* fantasy that it was you. Only. I guess it wasn't so ridiculous," he says, and laughs breathlessly. 

Treville croons and *yanks* Porthos close, licks his face and throat and shoulders, grips the back of his neck -- 

Treville is *shaking* -- 

Porthos wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. "You can take the enchantment off me now, precious." 

"My Porthos is ready to stop being calm?" 

"Absolutely. I'm in Treville's arms. He can make anything safe -- *NNH* --" 

Treville *clutches* him -- 

*Bites* his shoulder -- 

And Porthos's heart is pounding, and Porthos is panting, gasping -- 

Porthos's mind is full of light, flashes of images -- 

His Mum so sick and hurt and weak -- 

His Mum's *eyes* as she'd spoken about her mate -- 

About *Treville* -- 

About the man *biting* him and holding him and *licking* him -- 

And oh, it had felt so *fucking* good when Treville had licked his mouth, kissed him, *teased* him -- 

He'd tossed Treville *off*!

He'd tossed his *father* off, and oh, *fuck*, what would Mum say?

What would Mum *think*?

He has to always be her sweet boy -- 

"My Porthos..." And that's Aramis's voice, soft and hesitant and just a little worried, and he can hear him, Porthos can *hear* him, and *understand*, but -- 

But Treville isn't biting him anymore -- 

Treville isn't -- 

He's pulling *back* -- 

Porthos grunts and *clutches* before he can *think* -- but you're not supposed to -- 

You can't just molest the bloody *Captain* -- 

Porthos *jerks* back -- 

*Staggers* back -- 

"Son -- Porthos..." And Treville's voice is low, and even, so bloody *even*, and his *expression* is even, too --

And Porthos catches himself gulping air, seeking, *seeking*, just as if he'd be able to *taste* the truth on the air -- and. There's something. He frowns and moves *close* to Treville again -- 

Athos has stepped back into the *shadows*, and that's not on, but -- 

"Son, don't --" 

"What -- don't -- don't hide from me, *please*, sir --" 

Treville shows his teeth, eyes flaring -- 

"Yeah, *that* --" 

"*Son*." 

"I'm *listening* --" 

"I can't -- listen carefully, son," Treville says, and reaches up to *grip* Porthos's shoulders, pressing hard where he'd bitten. "My -- my memories, my thoughts -- they're all a roil right now --" 

"So are *mine* --" 

"And. My control isn't the best. It never was, when it came to you."

Porthos *grunts* -- 

Treville's eyes flare *hotter* -- 

And Porthos can't hold back a -- rumble. Not a growl, not a groan, not even a croon. *Nothing* even remotely deniable. It was a *rumble* -- 

And Treville looks shocked and hungry and wanting and -- thrilled. 

"Sir...?" 

He licks his lips and squeezes again. "You're coming into your power. Late and -- and I don't know, precisely. The All-Mother can't reach you quite yet, but She just told me that She'll be able to *soon* --" 

"Oh -- *shit* --" 

"Shh, it's all right. I'll guide you through. And I daresay your mate will, too." 

"I --" 

"*Yes*," Aramis says fiercely. "I will do this thing *always*."

And Porthos can breathe. He can -- he can *breathe*, and *think* -- 

Squeeze Aramis's hard hand -- 

Catch Athos's eye by main force and try to make *promises* with his eyes -- 

He won't always be this much of a *mess* -- 

"My *Porthos* --" 

Porthos squeezes Aramis's hand again, and turns to smile into *his* perfect eyes. "You can see right down into me. I know you can." 

"You have *invited* me there, my Porthos --" 

"That's where you belong, precious. But. I need you to make sure *Athos* knows that *both* me and Treville want him right here, even though we're going a little mad right now. We -- we'll get each other sorted, and then he can go right back to telling Athos what's what about *his* family." 

Aramis gives him a *quirked* look for that -- 

"No? I *promise* --" 

"Oh, no, my Porthos, it is not... ah..." 

Athos clears his throat -- 

Moves closer again -- 

Looks back and forth between Porthos and *Treville*, who is still *gripping* Porthos's shoulders -- and gazing up at him *proudly*. 

Porthos blushes *hard* -- 

*Treville* rumbles -- "My boy..." And then he turns to Athos. "What do you need to say to us, son? Porthos has the right of it, as far as I'm concerned. The only thing I can think to add is that I've been looking for both of you -- *hunting* for both of you -- for over twenty *years*. I need you both to help me not fuck this up now." 

Athos nods once, sharp and quick, and then turns to Porthos. "Aramis has been reassuring me that both of you still wanted both of *us* here. I trust him implicitly." 

Porthos blinks -- and grins. "Thank you, precious." 

"Yes, *thank* you," Treville says *fervently*. 

"Always, my Porthos. Yes, my Daddy." 

And Athos studies Treville for long moments -- 

Studies Treville's *throat* for long -- no. Studies the *sweat* on his throat. 

And Treville nods and rumbles and releases Porthos with one hand to swipe through the sweat on his own throat and offer it to Athos. 

Athos sniffs at Treville's fingertips immediately, sniffs thoroughly and deeply and hungrily -- 

"Is it harder for you to smell the truth of us than it is for Aramis to do the same? You lack much of his magery..." 

Athos takes another deep breath -- 

Licks -- 

Frowns *thoughtfully* -- "No. But I must know everything about you." 

Treville smiles wryly. "I *will* answer every last one of your questions, son --" 

"I must know everything -- as quickly as possible," Athos says, and *then* releases Treville's fingers. 

Treville licks them himself and hums -- and then laughs *hard*. 

Porthos blinks -- 

And Aramis and Athos cock their heads to the side. 

"I apologize, I -- mm." And Treville grins. "I just couldn't help thinking of what Laurent -- Athos's father, Porthos --" 

"Oh -- oh, his father was the Captain *before* you?" 

"That's just right, son," Treville says, and sighs like his heart is hurting in all the best ways. "He was a *wonderful* man -- and if he'd had the power to gain detailed, specific knowledge of a subject through *just* the application of his senses...?"

Porthos grins. "He'd have been all *over* the subject in question?" 

"One hand pinning the -- lucky -- subject flat, one hand taking notes," Treville says, and sighs again. "I'm remembering some extremely exacting interrogations with *me* as the subject when I was an adolescent which could've been even more exciting." 

And Athos rests his fingertips on the back of Treville's hand. "You and my... father were lovers." 

"That's right, son. He was a member of my pack, along with your mother, my mate and Porthos's mother Amina, and your Uncles Kitos and Reynard. We were all lovers." 

That. Porthos is *coughing* -- 

Treville blinks -- 

*He* looks panicked -- 

He looks *exactly* like a man who just accidentally told his son that his late beloved mother had been a lot more *active* than ever previously *imagined* -- 

Porthos is still *coughing* -- and then he isn't, because Aramis has *whacked* him on the back. 

*Hard*. 

"Thank you, precious -- I --" 

"You are welcome, my Porthos. I know that you would not begrudge your mother -- your good mother! -- pleasure and joy!" 

"What? No!" 

"Yes, this," Aramis says, and nods -- 

"I --" 

"I also know that you would never -- ever! -- fall into the same foolish and *human* errors other people fall into about their women." 

Porthos stares for a moment. 

Aramis's eyes narrow -- 

Porthos coughs again -- "I would never!" 

Aramis nods again. "This is so." 

"Right, and --" 

"I also know..." 

"Um..." Porthos licks his lips. "Um. Yeah?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. 

Treville's eyes are *bright* with the *arsehole-ish* laughter he's holding back -- 

Athos looks like he's tempted to taste Porthos's *panic*-sweat, though really, he's had to have scented something similar on *everyone* Aramis has ever dallied with -- 

"My Porthos! You are not a dalliance!" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and brings Aramis's hand to his mouth for a long, slow *lick* -- 

Aramis butts at the air. "Better. Better and more *animal*." 

"I --" 

"But I was saying..." 

"Oh -- tell me, precious," Porthos says, and licks again helplessly -- 

Again and again -- 

He gets another rueful and *soft* smile. "I know that my Porthos is my mate. I know that my Porthos will learn every lesson about this that there is to know!" 

"I *absolutely* will --" 

"The All-Mother has been teaching me lessons while you were speaking with Daddy..." 

"Oh -- yeah?" And Porthos catches himself lifting his *nose* -- 

What the bloody -- 

*Why* is he --

"It's all right, son," Treville says. "You *will* be tempted to do that whenever you want to check to see if a loved one is all right -- and at other times, too." 

"I..." Porthos *sweats* -- no. No. 

He can bloody well *breathe*, and *think*, because his mate needs him. 

That's more important than everything. "Aramis --" 

"Porthos..."

"Mm? Tell me, precious love. Let me *fix* it," Porthos says, and turns fully toward Aramis, cupping his beautiful face, stroking his cheek-fur just a little *softly*... 

Aramis rumbles quietly, under his breath, and pushes into Porthos's hands -- 

"That's it, do *that* --" 

"My Porthos. My *mate*. I... do not wish to tell you everything about me," Aramis says, and looks down. 

Porthos frowns helplessly -- 

Treville raises a bloody *eyebrow*, but -- 

But Athos is just standing straight like maybe *he* won't say anything else, *either*, and -- 

Porthos growls a little and strokes down to Aramis's shoulders. "Love... you know I'll tell you everything about myself, yeah?" 

"Yes." 

"You know I'll never... never *lie* or --" 

"This is *clear*," Aramis says, and doesn't look up, and -- 

And Porthos can *think*. He massages Aramis's tense shoulders a little, firm and gentle. "You think your secrets will chase me away." 

Aramis's face twists up -- "I --" 

"No, wait. You *know* it *can't* chase me away, but you think it *should*." 

Athos inhales sharply -- 

Porthos can see him starting to step back and away from Treville, just like that -- 

"Son, *wait* --" 

The *clearing* starts to shimmer around them -- 

Porthos growls and *grips* Aramis -- "It won't be too *much*, love!" 

"You do not --" Aramis looks up with *wounded* eyes. "We will not hide from you. Not -- not always..." 

*Both* he and Treville are *snarling* -- 

Treville is moments away from *pouncing* on Athos, by the look of it -- and *Athos* looks like he's about to pull this clearing right out of *existence*, or at least out of any existence that he and Treville can reach. That's -- 

"Sir. Sir, we have to stand *down*," Porthos says, and he's sweating for more than a *few* reasons, not least of which is the fact that he's talking this way to his *Captain* -- 

Who's also his *father* -- 

Who -- 

Who's also the man -- the *dog* -- who'd just growled low *and* whined before standing straight, blowing out a breath, and shaking himself out. That's -- 

That's about the best they can all hope for, right now. Porthos looks to Aramis with his eyebrows up. 

Aramis gives him another wounded look -- 

"Please, Aramis. Let us -- let us *negotiate*," Porthos says, licking his lips and trying hard to *push* his need for everything to be *right* for Aramis *at* Aramis -- 

"You are doing this thing, my Porthos," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. "You are... we both feel you -- and Daddy."

Treville growls, short and sharp and quiet again. He's letting Porthos talk, which is *terrifying* -- 

*Impossible* -- 

Not *right* -- 

"Do not doubt yourself in this way, my Porthos," Aramis says, and reaches up to cup Porthos's face, to stroke Porthos's cheeks with his fingertips. "You are strong, wise, brave, *sure*." 

"All of those things, son. And so much more," Treville says, in a deceptively *calm* voice. His eyes are still wild. 

Aramis studies Treville -- and nods. "You will not be reckless. You will be -- you will both be careful." 

Treville shudders, eyes getting even wilder for long moments -- 

They'll probably be that way for a while. 

His own probably aren't much better, but -- "Are you saying you'll give us this time, precious?" 

Aramis looks to Athos -- but only for a moment before they both nod. And then Aramis looks up at Porthos again. "We will sit, my Porthos, and we will speak." 

Porthos breathes. "Thank you, love. You don't -- no. You *do* know *precisely* how much this means." 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "I do know this thing. I know that *I* mean all things to you, that I *am* all things to you... we." He shudders, and gestures at the little green, until unnaturally-smooth stumps grow out of the earth in a rough square. "We will find ways to keep you both from resenting this." 

"*Love* --" 

"*Please*," Aramis says, and gestures again. 

Porthos frowns and moves to sit on one of the stumps. It's actually a little warm on top of being smooth -- nice on bare skin -- and it makes him wonder how much power Aramis had *used* for this -- 

Aramis sits across from him. "Only a little, my Porthos. This clearing, this space and the spaces it touches while it touches them..." 

"They are ours," Athos says, sitting beside Aramis. "For better or worse."

"Yes. That is the best way to put it," Aramis says. 

Treville sits beside Porthos and leans forward, clasping his hands between his knees. "Will you tell us who took care of you both when you were younger?" 

Athos looks closely at Treville's hands -- 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

*Porthos* had been all set to believe that was a question which *wouldn't* get them into any more trouble, but, well, this is why nobody lets him make the plans. 

"Hm." And Treville raises a wry eyebrow at him. "I would think this would be a reason to keep *me* from making the plans, son." 

"I --" 

Athos growls. "You knew that would be a difficult question for us, Treville," he says, and his frankly beautiful eyes are *hot* with anger, though the rest of his expression is even -- which is impressive for a teenager. 

If that even *is* how old he is -- no. Porthos can't get caught up in that right now. He makes a hopefully-soothing gesture. "Easy, Athos. I think he might've *suspected* it would be a difficult question --" 

"Let *him* answer, my Porthos!" Aramis's expression is -- a blaze of passion Porthos wants to live in *while* soothing, but -- 

"Right you are, love," Porthos says, and turns to give a *look* to Treville. 

Treville gives another *wry* look back before turning to the fauns. "I did suspect. I even have suspicions about the identity of *one* of the people who might have had a hand in... training you --" 

"What." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. 

"Additionally, I have my suspicions about why Aramis is so concerned about protecting us both from... from the chains on you boys."

"Chains --" Porthos turns to Aramis and Athos -- 

They're blinking and drawing *back* -- 

"Sir, what --" 

"I --" Treville sighs and leans over his knees again. "Let me begin at the beginning." 

"Do so!" And Aramis is pawing at the ground with one hoof -- 

Athos nods once -- 

Treville nods back. "I was born a weak mage. I was not trained. I was not taught. When I met my mate, she had to tell me that I *was* a witch. She had to tell me that *she* was a witch. She was a weak mage, as well -- and had received no training until she was fourteen, when she met her guardians. 

"They trained both of us -- and *augmented* both of us, and *bound* us to each other, and to the babe in her belly --" 

"Uhh..."

"We'll discuss that later, son. At *length*, I promise," Treville says. 

Porthos blinks -- 

*Copes* -- 

"Yes, sir. Uh -- carry on." 

Treville claps Porthos's shoulder, squeezes it with that strong, pale, brutally-scarred hand -- and then he smiles at Porthos and turns back to Athos and Aramis. "As I was saying, they trained both of us -- but the training wasn't as good as it could've been. Amina's guardians had some wrong-headed ideas about the All-Mother, and how it was better to live beneath Her notice, even if you were an *earth*-mage --" 

"Oh -- *no*!" 

And Athos looks *affronted*, as well he should. 

Treville smiles painfully. "Precisely. When Amina's -- and Porthos's -- lives were in danger, Ife, Lara, and Layo never once thought to ask for help from the All-Mother, even though they could've *easily* -- and I didn't know how to. I didn't know it was *possible*, much less *advisable*. 

"Neither did Amina." 

Porthos shudders and just -- shuts his teeth on everything. Everything. 

Treville squeezes his shoulder again. "Belgard -- the pustule of a noble who'd gotten Amina pregnant in the first place -- set an assassin after her and Porthos when his parents finally threatened to disinherit him if he *didn't* have them killed --" 

Porthos *grunts* -- 

And Treville squeezes him hard and turns to face him again. "His parents -- they'd tried to get him to end the 'affair' between him and your mother multiple times --" 

"That's not -- that's not an *excuse*!" 

"No, it *isn't*, son. It -- he was a greedy, weak, posturing... it was a *joke* in the pack. A -- 'how long will Belgard keep pretending Amina is his? How long will he let us keep *humiliating* him with the *truth*?' Your mother had -- had a *hilarious* impression of Belgard's poncy little *mince* when he was convinced that he was the cock of the *walk* -- fuck, I -- do you need me to stop talking, son?" 

"No, I -- I --" 

"Son." 

"You need to tell Aramis and Athos your *tale*, sir!" 

"But it's your tale, too, son," Treville says, and his voice is low, and hard, and rough, and -- 

Porthos pants and just wants -- 

Just *needs* -- 

"Tell me what you need, son. I *promise* you can have it," Treville says, and his pale eyes are gentle in the afternoon light, and full of -- 

Full of every promise in the world. 

"That's right. And they're all for you, and your brothers." 

"Daddy! I!" Aramis is stamping one *hoof* --

Athos is *coughing* and stamping -- 

Porthos grunts and blinks and just -- wait.

Treville hums and squeezes Porthos's shoulder again. "That made every kind of sense in the world to *you*, didn't it, son." 

"Uh. Yeah? Yeah, it did, actually," Porthos says, and frowns again.

Treville nods. "It did -- in part -- *because* we were bound while you were in the womb. You're always going to be my son, Porthos. The blood in my *veins*." 

"Yes -- *yes* -- I -- everything you *say* makes sense to me, sir!" 

Treville growls one of those *sharp* growls again -- and then nods. "The feeling is mutual, son. But. You're also my pack, and I'm *your* pack." And Treville raises an eyebrow at him. A *teaching* eyebrow. 

"Oh, I -- and everyone *you* consider to be your pack... is someone I'm at least going to *think* about making my pack?" 

"Good, son, but... more than that. More. You're not going to be able to get away from your sense of Athos as a brother to you, even if you somehow come to want to, and *I'm* not going to be able to get away from my sense of Aramis as a son to me. A son for more than the length of an *admittedly* passionate dalliance," Treville says, and his eyebrow is still up. 

His eyebrow is up for *all* of them, though, and -- 

And Porthos turns to take Aramis and Athos in. Aramis still looks stunned. *Athos* looks stunned and thoughtful and... frustrated? "Athos?" 

Athos frowns more deeply for a moment -- 

And Treville swipes at the sweat at the base of his throat and offers it to him. 

"Oh -- thank you," he says, and sniffs it thoroughly. 

Treville looks at *Porthos* -- 

Right. Porthos swipes up his *own* sweat and offers it once Athos releases Treville's hand --

Athos just looks at him. 

Porthos licks his lips. "No...? I mean, I don't -- we don't --" 

Treville snorts -- 

Aramis butts Athos with his horns. Gently, but -- 

"Oh, I --" Athos frowns at Aramis. "He has no *reason* to offer greater intimacy to *me*." 

"He is a dog; you are his *pack*." 

Athos's frown makes him look *enraged*, but all he actually says is: "I respectfully disagree."

Treville sighs happily. "So much like his father." 

Athos *blinks* -- 

*Both* he and Aramis turn to study Treville *hungrily* --

Treville grins and nods to Athos. "That's exactly how Laurent would have responded to that. Though there probably would have been a 'no, thank you' in there somewhere." 

Athos flushes. "I -- don't mean to be impolite --" 

"Easy, son," Treville says, and raises a hand. "I've an idea how you were brought up, and it *wasn't* by your parents." 

Athos inhales sharply. "*What* do you -- believe that you know. I... please tell us. Please... don't make us wait any longer." 

"Yes, this," Aramis says. "We must know what you know, Treville," he says, and his voice is low and serious, lacking *most* of the music it's had since they've arrived. "We must know so that we can... negotiate." 

"From a position of strength, son...?" And Treville's eyes are bright again, almost *merry* -- 

Athos and Aramis frown -- 

Treville makes another soothing gesture. "I apologize for that, and I apologize for making you -- *all* of you -- wait. This: When the assassin went after my Amina-love, none of us -- none of her *brothers* -- were in the country. Belgard was smart enough to wait for that. Still, Amina was Amina, and she managed to fight the bastard off with her dirty blade. 

"I got the story from the man himself, while I was cutting him to pieces for it," Treville says, and pauses, obviously looking into his memories -- and then he shakes himself out of them. "I killed everyone who had a hand in Amina's murder *eventually*, boys, but it took time. 

"And hunting. She disappeared, you see. She thought she *had* to -- because the assassin had enough natural power to be a little immune to earth-magery, and she couldn't risk the babe or her guardians. Not while her *brothers* were out of the country. I pieced this all together later. From the clues I picked up on my hunt -- and from the allies I made. 

"One of the allies is my lover Jason, an immortal blood- and fire- and shadow-mage who has taught me... any number of things." Treville grunts and smiles, just a little. "He *became* a member of my pack in the years after we lost -- so much, but that took time, and care. We were all grieving -- him, too -- and, at first, he was only *my* brother. 

"Jason and I have hunted together many, many times over the years, boys -- and on one of those hunts, we found a death-mage named Guillou. We already knew he was the one *ultimately* responsible for Amina's death -- that he'd drained her life and magic and energy until she was just --" Treville snarls -- 

His eyes are wet and red-rimmed again -- 

And Porthos is in that *room* again, alone with his Mum as she *rattled* her last, not even *breathed*, just -- just -- 

And then he'd just been alone. 

Alone and alone and -- 

"No *longer*," Treville says, and *grips* the back of Porthos's neck, growls in his *face* -- 

"Sir --" 

"You'll *never* be alone again!" 

Porthos blinks and blinks and -- he's in the present again, with his father and his mate and his -- 

Well, Athos doesn't particularly *want* to be claimed by him, but damned if he isn't Porthos's pack *anyway* -- and Treville rumbles at him *just* like he can hear Porthos's thoughts just as clearly as Aramis can. 

Just like he's *been* hearing Porthos's thoughts -- 

This whole bloody -- but. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

(I'll always give you your privacy, son.) 

*Shit* -- 

(Shh. Just that. Just that; I promise.) And Porthos's sense of Treville *fades* -- 

Treville is letting Porthos feel him *fade*, and Porthos *gets* that he's trying to be bloody *polite*, but -- 

"No, son...?" 

"Don't -- don't leave. Please." 

Treville growls again -- 

Squeezes Porthos's *neck* again -- 

Porthos *shivers* -- 

"I'll never leave when you want me to stay, son," Treville says, and the promise goes through every part of him -- 

Lights him up and makes him *croon* -- 

"Oh, son -- oh, son, you're going to make me make promises to you all the *time* if they all get *that* reaction," Treville says, and laughs quietly. 

*Fuck* -- but. "I promise that you've always been the *only* man I've *ever* wanted as my father, sir." 

"*Shit* --"

His *cock* flexes -- 

His cock spatters the *grass* -- 

Porthos nods in satisfaction and leans back. "*Now* you can finish telling your tale, sir."

"Oh, *can* I?" 

Athos clears his throat again -- 

"*Fuck* --" Treville coughs a laugh. "That's another thing your father *and* mother could do, son." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Make everyone in a room *attend*, just like that," he says, and snaps his fingers. "Your younger brother Thomas has *much* of that -- as much as he wants *whenever* he wants, really -- but he tends to... blunt it. *Disguise* it behind everything he's doing to convince you that he's not as brilliant and terrifying as he is. You'll all see for yourselves, of course, and get to know him. I've *wanted* him to have more *younger* friends --"

"And people to terrify...?" Athos's eyebrow is still high. 

Treville frowns. "Don't -- I'm not the best at describing people all the time. But I *am* good at knowing when people will get along." 

"You don't know *me*, Treville." 

"I know you better by the moment, son," Treville says, and looks at Athos steadily. 

Aramis cocks his head to the side, and butts at the air thoughtfully. 

Treville turns to face *him*. "Mm?" 

"*You* do not wish to revisit the past in your mind." 

Treville winces. "I --" He gives himself a shake. "No, son, I don't. I never do. And I apologize for *forcing* you to call me out like that." He gives himself another shake -- 

Porthos cups *his* shoulder -- and Treville covers his hand and squeezes it. 

"My boys. I *hunted*. And I hunted with Jason at my side. We'd sussed out Guillou's identity, and Guillou had gone on the run. We found him just the same, and we -- *mostly* I -- tore him apart. Piece by piece by piece." He nods toward his weapons, which, now that Porthos can pay attention to more than just his cock, are farther away from their clothes than Porthos would have expected. "I made him beg to end the pain. I made him beg to *serve* me. And then, with Jason's help, I imprisoned his spirit in my rapier, where he'll scream for as close to a thousand years as I can manage." 

"*Fuck*, sir. *Thank* you!" 

"You never have to thank me for that, son," Treville says, eyes flaring again. "But I needed to tell all of that story for more than one reason." 

"I -- yeah?" 

And Aramis and Athos are looking at Treville with *measuring* eyes, *studying* eyes, but, fuck, Porthos needs *all* of this -- 

Treville nods. "That wasn't the only hunt I was on, but... it had set a tone," Treville says, and he's looking into his past again. "It only took a few weeks to find the assassin -- and hours to slice him to pieces in the cell he'd been inhabiting for slaughtering two wet-nurses in Reims. He was a madman --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"With Belgard, I had to bide my time a little. Wait until he was alone. And then I strung him up by his own intestines for his family to find." 

"Uh." 

Treville flares his nostrils and shows his teeth. "Laurent cleaned that mess for me. I --" 

"Literally...?" And that was Athos, one eyebrow up under his shaggy fringe and eyes just a little *hot*. 

"Not at all, son," Treville says, leaning forward just a little. "He refused to tell me just what he did to make things blow over enough that I walked free -- and the *King's Musketeers* continued on as they were -- but I'll tell you this: The Belgard family walked small around your father -- and your mother -- from there on out. And so did just a *few* others who *had* been thorns in *all* of our sides." 

Athos blinks -- 

And Aramis nods. "Diplomacy must not be a limited thing. All know this. All know this." 

Treville smiles at Aramis -- and then turns back to Athos. "This doesn't square with what little you *do* know of your father." 

Athos frowns *direfully*. "No. But you'll tell me more." 

"Absolutely --" 

"Finish telling us what you know about *us* first," Aramis says.

"And I'll do that, too," Treville says, sighing and dragging his free hand down over his face, mussing his beard even more -- 

Porthos is not bloody *thinking* of how *he'd* had a hand in mussing that beard -- 

"I'd gone mad without Porthos and Amina, son. I could..." Treville turns to Porthos again. "I could feel that you were both still alive, but I couldn't *find* you. You could've been in the next room or you could've been on another sphere entirely. You were... wisps. Teasing *hints*. And, as the months passed, I could feel your mother growing weaker." 

"Oh, shit, sir..." 

"Mm. I went mad. I lost myself. I killed -- and tortured -- *brutally*. And my hunt -- my entry into the left-handed *war* -- was... dark." And Treville looks at Athos and Aramis. 

Athos is looking to Aramis -- and Aramis is nodding slowly. "I begin to see," Aramis says. 

"I thought you might, son. But I'll keep going, anyway." 

Athos laughs quietly. "Please do." 

Treville smiles wryly. "I went everywhere I *could* go chasing rumours of powerful mages -- mages who might be able to get my Amina-love *back* --" 

"Oh. Oh..." And Athos is blinking and paling and drawing *back*, and that -- 

"Right," Porthos says, "who's going to fill *me* in?"

Treville raises an eyebrow at Aramis and Athos -- 

And Aramis winces and stamps rapidly and *nervously* -- 

Treville blinks -- "Sons, is this space not *only* yours? Is it not *safe* from --" 

"It *is* safe," Aramis says, and *stops* stamping through what's obviously an act of *will*. "I have *made* it so *and* the All-Mother has *promised* that it is so --" 

"But." Athos licks his scarred lips, and his eyes are wide. "We were *given* this space by -- by him. By..." Athos winces. 

*Aramis* winces --

Porthos growls. "I'm going to kill him, whoever he is." 

"You're going to have to get in line, son," Treville says, and sighs. "Jason knows many names for him and so, at this point, do I. For the sake of your comfort, sons, let's call him... Steal. Because that's precisely what he does. *One* of the things he does, when he's pretending to *just* be a powerful and helpful and open-handed mage." 

"Oh -- did he -- he stole *Athos*."

Athos shudders. 

"He stole *Aramis*," Porthos says, and snarls --

And Treville grips his hand and squeezes. "Easy, son. Breathe. Violence is not what your pack needs from you right now." 

"I -- I --" 

"*Breathe*." 

Porthos grunts and *obeys* -- and tastes Aramis on the air, tastes his worry, his fear of *hurt*, and that's *enraging*, but -- 

But there's something -- 

The fear isn't for *himself*. The fear is... for him? And Treville? 

(Yes. Yes, my Porthos.) 

And that's a stop in him, a *need* to stop, and think, and make sure his Aramis has everything he *needs* -- 

He can't be *afraid* -- 

Fuck, Porthos needs that voice in his head all the *time* -- 

(Oh -- then you will have it!) 

Please -- 

(You need never *beg*, but...) 

"Mm? But what, precious? I *promise* I'll listen to you." 

Aramis shivers. "Yes. Yes, I see this thing. You must show *care*, my Porthos. He -- *Steal* is very dangerous, very strong, and neither Athos nor I would be able to *help* you with him," Aramis says, and *both* he and Athos smell *ashamed*. 

Porthos snorts air out of his nose -- "Love --" 

"There's a geas on them, son. I'll teach you how to see it," Treville says. 

Athos blinks -- 

And Aramis stares -- "I -- but you *did* say that you could see our... chains. I. Have you been able to see them from the *beginning*, Daddy?" 

"I have, son." 

"But -- you -- why did you agree to *play* with me!" 

Treville raises both of his eyebrows. "You promised on our *goddess* that your secrets wouldn't hurt me, son. And you were telling the truth." 

"Hm. As far as he *knew* it," Athos says, and laughs quietly again. 

Treville smiles warmly at Athos. "There is that, son. Please keep the following in mind, though: Steal stole *you* from us because *I* -- without a single ally to hand, without one single artifact of power -- beat him so badly that he had to run, wounded and hacked-*off*. At the time, I barely knew anything about Fae -- I didn't know much more about him than the fact that he was using the *ruse* of being an open-handed mage to kidnap and torture *children* -- but I still had the *dog* within me, and all of the dog's power and knowledge and *rage*." 

"Oh." 

Athos blinks again -- 

Porthos feels better *and* worse, because -- "Sir, has he been *hiding* from you for all this time?"

Treville shows his teeth. "To be fair, son... at this point, Steal is almost certainly hiding from any number of people." 

"Including your Jason." 

Treville inclines his head -- and looks to Athos and Aramis with his eyebrows up again. 

They look at each other for long moments. 

Long -- 

Athos swallows. "The... the All-Mother said that Fae were Moon-children. Very young, compared to Her." 

Aramis swallows and licks his *lips*. "This -- this is so." 

"Still quite powerful --" 

"But... young," Aramis says, and butts at the air, and grins, and turns to Treville. "My *Daddy*. Tell me you can *break* our chains!" 

Treville hums. "I'm going to need some help for that -- starting with yours," he says, and *looks* at them both. 

"Yes, Treville?" And Athos raises an eyebrow. "*What* do you need in order to -- you must know how eager we are to be free." 

"Of course, son. But this space we're all inhabiting isn't just magical in nature, isn't just *away* from everything nominally human, it's also *moving*, yes?" 

Athos stiffens -- 

Treville smiles ruefully. "At ease, son. I had to do a bit of thinking to figure that out. A beautiful little clearing I had to keep walking to in order to *get* to -- that's not *impossible* magic to do. But a beautiful little clearing like that which has also been kept *safe* from the Fae who gifted it to the fauns who currently inhabit it...?" Treville shakes his head in open admiration. "You're both constantly concentrating to *keep* it moving, yes?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Yes." 

Athos takes a shuddering breath. "There is, at this point, relatively little effort." 

"Good. Keep it *up*. And then come with me to a more *fixed* location. Just for a little while." 

Porthos smiles hopefully. "Or longer than a little while...?" 

But Aramis and Athos are stiffening up again -- 

*Obviously* thinking of shit that *arsehole* had put them through -- 

Porthos fights back the growls with everything he *is* -- 

And Treville grips his hand tightly. "Sons. Even assuming that *waste* is willing to enter the presence of *two* earth-mage shifters he will *know* mean him harm? There will *also* be Jason Blood there. Please ask the All-Mother about him. I know you haven't, yet." 

Porthos is getting the sense that *he* ought to ask -- 

And then he's *filled* with warmth, with pleasure, with joy and welcome and *love* -- 

He can feel that it's *love* -- 

(Of course you can, son. The All-Mother will never let you stew in ignorance,) Treville says, amused and quiet as the All-Mother *thunders* through Porthos -- 

Rolls and *rides* through Porthos -- 

He feels so *full*!

He's hungry and *hard* and he's so *full* -- 

(That's right, son, just... just give in to it...) 

*Sir* -- 

(Shh... don't focus on me now,) Treville says, and gives him a gentle *push* -- but doesn't fade. He doesn't *fade*, and that's so *important*. 

That makes it so *good* to fall into feeling the All-Mother, feeling that soft weight, that soft *presence* all over *his* being, like being buried in the hottest, most perfect cunt -- 

Like being rolled between soft breasts that are bigger than *he* is -- 

Like -- 

He doesn't bloody *know*, but it's perfect, and he's *aching* in every best way -- 

And then the All-Mother is working him, *taking* him, and he'd *heard* that She took spend from earth-mages, but he'd never -- 

Oh, he'd never imagined what it could really *feel* like. He gives himself to it completely, just *completely*, and feels Her pleasure in him spike, *blaze* -- 

He can smell every green there is -- 

He can feel every best *heat* -- 

She's pushing into his arse so *deep* -- 

Fucking him *hard* -- is he on his back? His belly? 

Is he -- are his eyes closed?

He doesn't know *anything*, and right now, that's all right. That's bloody *perfect*. He pumps his hips and groans and wishes -- 

And then there just *are* soft lips pressed to his, warm, a nose to nuzzle against, a smile that seems *vast* even though he's kissing it -- 

Of course he has to kiss it -- 

Of course he has to know -- 

The knowledge comes: He has always been the sweetest of boys. 

Oh -- 

The knowledge comes: He has always been the sweetest, most perfect, most beautiful of boys. 

*Shit* -- 

And the laughter is all through him, all around him, all through *everything*, and it's what he's needed -- 

Needed more than *anything* -- 

He begs for more and it's wordless, keened, breathless -- 

He's pumping up and up and up into that fist, that cunt, that -- he doesn't know, he doesn't know, please keep *laughing* -- 

The laughter flattens him, comes from everywhere at once, every *part* of him at once, and he's spending himself blind -- 

Trying to kiss those soft *lips* -- 

He's too -- 

Too *human* -- 

The knowledge comes: He is Her child, and he is perfect. 

Porthos spurts again, and *again* -- 

Sobs and sweats and *drools* -- 

And then feels himself *held* by dozens of hard hands, so hard, so hard-*worked*, but they're still gentle with *him*, easing him down, petting him right down, letting him know -- 

Letting him know he's loved. 

He's loved. 

Porthos breathes for a while. Just -- breathes. 

Eventually, he can think about the fact that he apparently is *in* the earth, in a little hollow-thing, just like the other witches had said could happen. 

All right, then. 

The All-Mother fills him with a gentler amusement. 

Porthos smiles and takes it and keeps breathing -- wait, no, he had a *question* to ask -- 

And then he just *is* looking at a broad-shouldered, pale-skinned, kind of *compact* man with long, dark-red hair. He's swinging a bloody *bastard* sword at something huge and orange and scaly and screaming and *monstrous* -- 

The knowledge comes: The man is Jason Blood; the monster is the All-Mother's daughter Celq, who, sadly, grew to love the pain and suffering of others far too much. 

Right, all right -- 

For a while, Blood is *dancing* with that massive sword, but Celq's hide is barely even *dented* when he lands a hit -- 

Porthos can *tell* the blade is backed-up with some kind of serious curses -- 

Celq is still barely *bleeding* -- 

Blood is slowing down -- 

Celq is backing him up -- 

The sword snaps like a *twig* against one of Celq's eye-spike-things -- and then Celq sodding *swallows* Blood, just like that -- 

Except that Blood had been *smiling* just before her teeth clicked shut --

Somehow *smiling* -- 

And then Celq's eyes widen and roll like a terrified *horse's* in the moments before her whole head explodes in masses of meat, bone, and gouts of eldritch-looking flame. 

The knowledge comes: When Jason Blood hunts with Treville, excesses and risk are the rule, and not the exception. 

Uh. And when they hunt *alone*?

The knowledge comes: The rule is much, much worse. They have been too much alone. They have forgotten their own value in their loneliness and pain. They have needed a steady, thoughtful partner. 

Porthos blinks -- and nods. Yes, All-Mother. I'll fix it.

She strokes him, and fills him more, and *loves* him more -- 

He can barely remember what he was *asking* about -- 

The knowledge comes: Jason Blood is a loving, brilliant, wise, hurt, and desperately hungry man who will always use the vast power at his disposal to care for those he loves, who are invariably those who create more love and life and pleasure. He is worthy of everyone Porthos loves.

Porthos blinks. Just -- 

He couldn't get away from that knowledge -- or *any* of the knowledge the All-Mother has given him -- if he *tried*. 

It --

The All-Mother strokes him curiously. 

No, I -- does he *know* you feel that way about him, All-Mother? 

The All-Mother fills him with amusement, and the knowledge comes: When children think themselves old enough, they will *always* question their Mother. 

Porthos *coughs*. Got it, right. Thank you, All-Mother. I'll um... keep all of this in mind. 

The knowledge comes: He has always been a warm and beautiful seed.

Porthos blushes -- and finds himself back on the little smooth stump again, out in the light and air and *not* any more covered in spend than he had been before. Hunh. 

"She took it, son." 

"But..." 

"She took every last drop of it, because you're a superior child in every way, and She wants to make more children just *like* you." 

"Grk." 

Treville whacks him on the back and turns to Athos and Aramis, who are blinking at whatever's behind *their* eyes. "Everyone get their questions answered?" 

Athos licks those lips again. "Quite." 

Aramis stamps a little -- "I..." 

"No, son...?" 

"Oh, I -- I did get my questions answered, my Daddy! I am only somewhat stunned."

"All *right*, then. Let's go get those bloody chains off you."


	5. Home decoration should factor in function at least as much as form.

The *moment* he and Porthos are dressed again and Aramis and Athos free them from the moving clearing, Treville asks the All-Mother for a boon -- but She was already waiting for them, and brings the four of them to Treville's sitting room in his manor. An excellent choice, considering how *much* iron is on the walls in the weapons of his father and his father's old lieutenants. 

She strokes him with loving amusement -- 

The fauns and Porthos look around curiously while Treville lights the sconces -- 

And then the All-Mother drops Jason in their midst. 

"Cerridwen's *cock*, what *is* it -- oh. Did you need me, amant?" 

Treville smiles helplessly. "Always, lover," he says, and grips Jason by his queue -- he's been studying; it smells like dust and *crumbling* scrolls -- and yanks him in for a *hard* kiss -- 

"*Mm* -- mmmm..."

And Treville can *feel* the attention of absolutely *all* of his boys for this, but -- some things are necessary. 

Vital to his *existence* -- 

Treville growls into Jason's mouth and bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood -- 

Sucks *hard* -- 

(You might have just *called*...) 

We have rather more of an emergency than that, lover. 

(But not enough of one that you can't... firm your claim first...?) 

That's *right* -- 

(Even though you've been enjoying the attentions of -- oh, my.) And Jason pulls back and licks his lips. 

Treville smiles wryly. 

Jason's smile is wicked on his face -- and wondering in his red-brown eyes. "Congratulations on finding your *son*, amant." 

"*Thank* you. Now congratulate me on finding my *godson*, too," Treville says, and gestures to Athos. 

Jason opens his mouth -- and closes it again. "You had not mentioned that there was satyr-blood in the family, amant."

"Well, that's because there wasn't." 

"No...?" And Jason narrows his eyes a bit and *studies* Athos and Aramis -- 

And then he narrows his eyes more and bares his *teeth*. "And so we have discovered how those creatures *managed* to hide Olivier from us both for all these years. The alterations in him -- in both of these boys -- go right down to where they are *made*." 

"So they do," Treville says, and crosses his arms over his chest. "And Olivier goes by Athos now. His brother goes by Aramis." 

"Yes...?" 

Aramis and Athos nod once each, and continue to study Jason.

Porthos, for his part, is standing to attention a few feet behind Treville, pretending his eyebrows haven't been hovering around his hairline since the kiss -- 

(*Sir* --) 

Treville moves to clap him on the shoulder. "Steady on, son. Jason and I are going to do *better*. Aren't we, lover." 

"Hmm. I suppose every last one of your children --" 

Aramis stamps -- 

Athos shakes all over -- 

"-- is rather *viscerally* aware of the curses on me..." 

"Uh. Yeah, mate," Porthos says, and shifts on his feet a little. "The All-Mother didn't mention them." 

"No. No, my Daddy, She did not." 

Jason winces -- 

Treville growls. "What *did* She say, sons?"

Athos blinks -- and flushes under his cheek-fur -- 

Aramis is doing the same -- 

And *Porthos* gives himself a shake. "Right, sir, sorry about that," he says, and moves to close the distance between himself and Jason immediately. "And I apologize to you, too, mate --" 

Treville stops him from getting too close before Jason has to do it himself. 

"What..." 

Jason smiles wryly. "Thank you, amant," he says, and turns to Porthos. "*One* of the curses on me is the inability to touch or *be* touched by anyone without that person... recoiling. The effect is worst for earth-mages, because the *reason* for the curse is the fact that I'm possessed by a being who is most assuredly not the All-Mother's child." 

There's a lot more blinking, all around. Treville rubs at his moustache. "Jason and *I* are able to touch because we've shared blood --" 

"And *corruption*." 

"Yes, all *right*, Jason," Treville says. "As you can *see*, the All-Mother is entirely on-board with it." 

"Hmph." 

"Jason, of course, thinks he knows *better* than the goddess --" 

"I --" 

"Because he's a *less* minuscule fraction of Her age than we are --" 

"Uh." And Porthos licks his lips. 

"Yes, son?" Treville ignores Jason's glaring blithely. 

"Sharing blood is all it takes to bypass the curse? And what's the... being possessing you like, Jason? May I call you Jason?"

Jason blinks rapidly. "I -- of course you may call me -- ah. The beings *plural* possessing me are -- ah. The first is Etrigan, a fire-demon. He is one of the eldest children of the All-Mother, and it could be *reasonably* said that *I* am possessing *him*." 

"Uh. Yeah?" 

"We share this soul, due to a ritual done *on* us against our will hundreds of years ago. There is more to that story, but we can, perhaps, discuss it another time." 

"Right, right," Porthos says, staring and wide-eyed. Aramis moves to stand close to him -- and give him his scents. Porthos flares his nostrils -- 

Smiles *broadly* --

Cups the back of Aramis's neck and squeezes -- 

And nods to Jason. "And -- the other being?" 

"Etrigan and I warred on each other extensively when we first realized that we would be *stuck* sharing a soul, Porthos. It was..." Jason shakes his head. "We were foolish, reckless, and often foul. And, eventually, a third, *shadow*-being came to us. The *theory* we have is that something about our warring -- or about the vast amount of *power* we were tossing around to *do* our warring -- *called* the being to us, but we truly know nothing of any substance about him. 

"And the All-Mother has decided, for reasons of her own, to keep her own counsel." 

*All* of his boys raise their eyebrows for that -- not least, Treville would wager, because they could all hear the lack of capitals -- and devotion -- in how the All-Mother was discussed. 

Jason inclines his head to them. "So. Let us --" 

"M'sieu Blood." And Aramis lifts his pointed little chin. 

"Yes, Aramis?" 

"Is your lack of faith in the All-Mother based in the errors of your past or in the fact that She chooses not to share information that you have not earned?"

Treville sighs happily. 

Jason hums. "Yes, you *did* always like the *mouthy* ones --" 

"I!" 

"In answer to your questions, Aramis..." 

Aramis *flashes* those golden eyes at Jason -- and raises a little cream eyebrow. 

Jason grins. "I give my faith to *no* gods. *Whatsoever*. Gods are vast and powerful -- and *quite* often dangerously *ignorant* of everything *less* vast than they are. This leads to a great deal of *smiting* -- both accidental and not. *That* leads to *me* -- and your father -- going to *war*." 

His boys look to *him*, then -- so Treville bows and flourishes. 

Porthos growls. "Right. The All-Mother *said* you two needed a partner with a brain in his head --" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"She *what*?" 

"-- so don't think you're going to be going on all your little missions *alone* --" 

"Son --" 

"-- because She already *showed* me some of the shit Jason gets up to when he's *not* with you, sir, and I *absolutely* believe Her when She says he's barely any better *with* you." 

Jason licks his lips. "Credulity isn't a very safe sort of..." 

Porthos looks at Jason.

Hard. 

Very -- 

Aramis and Athos look at *him* -- 

Treville licks his lips -- 

*Jason* coughs -- and then turns to Aramis and Athos. "Why don't we get down to the business of *freeing* you from your kidnapper at last?" 

Athos inhales sharply -- and Aramis shudders. "What must we do," Aramis says, eyes wide and flaring. 

"Answer a *few* questions first --" 

"*Ask*," Athos says -- grits. 

Jason inclines his head. "You both consumed Fae food, yes?" 

They both show their teeth -- "*Yes*," Aramis says. "I *knew* it was a trap --" 

"But you were starved into it," Treville says, low and quiet.

"I..." 

"It's how he works, son. It's how the worst of them work -- though not most. *Most* stick to seduction and temptation. Steal has never been that deft, or that patient." 

Jason raises an eyebrow. "A new alias...?" 

Treville opens his mouth to explain, but -- 

"We. We have learned that even thinking one of his favoured names fervently enough, when we have not been in a safe location, was enough to... bring him," Athos says, flushed and looking at nothing in this room. 

Porthos is growling again -- 

"*That* is because he -- foolishly -- bound your souls to his own," Jason says. "You tug on his soul every time you *breathe* precipitously." 

Athos and Aramis look queasy for that, so Treville cups their shoulders and squeezes. "Here's why this isn't a bad thing. One: We're going to be able to hurt him *horrifically* badly in just a few moments when we free you *violently*, as opposed to smoothly. Two: We're going to be able to *track* him by the traces of the bond, so we can finish the job, once and for all." 

"Oh..." 

Aramis frowns. "Could he have not *known* that he was leaving himself so vulnerable?" 

"Oh, I daresay he knew *perfectly* well that he was leaving himself vulnerable, Aramis," Jason says, using his shadows to dress himself in wool and mail that isn't *especially* anathemic to earth-children -- it wouldn't do to make the fauns need to jerk away and fight at a delicate moment. 

"Then... why?" And Athos is looking back and forth between him and Jason.

"He knew I would be hunting him without *end* for taking you, son, and, eventually, he knew I'd have an incalculably powerful ally for that hunt in Jason. He needed to keep you away from me for as long as possible to *spite* me, and he knew he'd have an easier time hiding himself than he'd have hiding you --" 

"And so he linked me *to* himself to... make things easier for himself," Athos says, curling his lip. 

"Just so. I..." Jason turns to Aramis. "Do you have a mage in your life, Aramis? Someone who would hunt Steal for taking you?" 

Aramis's expression crumples, and his scents turn jagged and harsh -- 

Porthos growls and pulls him close immediately -- 

"He told me," Aramis says, after a long moment. "He told me when my good mother, my *strong* mother, had died."

Jason winces -- 

Porthos's eyes flare green as he clutches Aramis just the way he should -- 

And Treville growls helplessly and looks to Jason. "Let's get the other questions over with, lover." 

"As you say, amant. Athos, do you know if either of you has *bled* in the Fae realms --" 

Athos snorts. "Both of us. Extensively. Next?" 

"Have either of you *consumed* Fae blood?" 

"Only if it was in the food we were forced to eat." 

"Yes? You're certain?" 

Aramis shudders and tugs himself away from Porthos. "I was... placed with Athos very soon after I was taken. We shared what we knew of the rules and lore, and what lies we had been told. Not long after that, when we were changed into *this*, a Fae we did not know told us very clearly that we would be consuming the blood of proteans, a shape-changing species we had not heard of, followed by the very valuable and rare *preserved* blood of fauns, which had not existed on that realm for many centuries. They were... they repeated themselves. Many times." 

"It had the feel of ritual," Athos says. "We were given no more choice in the matter than we were given in anything else, but for that... the Fae involved were deeply *invested* in their *sense* of giving us a choice." 

Treville grunts. "That's because if they hadn't paid lip service to giving you a choice about consuming blood that wasn't your *own* in the middle of a *ritual*, son, they would've risked hacking off a very, very violent goddess." 

His boys blink -- 

And Jason spreads his hands. "Some mages choose to take that risk just the same. I *don't* recommend it."

"Right, fine," Porthos says, "but when are we going to *end* that arsehole?" 

"Presently, son. This is all helping us refine strategy," Treville says. 

"And I only have one more question," Jason says, and folds his hands in front of himself. "Have either of you made *love* with any Fae, in or out of Fae realms?"

Athos raises an eyebrow. "Monsieur Blood. Do you *truly* believe that Steal *wouldn't* make *use* of us in *every* way --" 

And *both* he and Porthos are growling, but -- 

"No, Athos, I don't," Jason says solemnly. "But that is not what I'm speaking of." 

"Then what?" 

Aramis inhales sharply. "He wishes to know if we have *shared* ourselves with --" 

"With... anyone *but* ourselves?" And Athos blinks and stares as though the idea is the maddest one he's ever heard. 

Aramis smiles wryly. "When Steal grew bored of us and gave us our little clearing, I learned how to lure unwary beings to me. The unwary are not worthy beings to give oneself to. Not truly." 

And all of this -- Treville's heart hurts. But. "We have a straight *enough* path ahead of us, lover." 

"We truly do. Still and all, your Porthos needs just a *bit* more training if he means to come with us --" 

"What -- I'm a bloody *Musketeer*!" 

"That won't work as well for you as your magery, son. Not with *this* enemy," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"I -- fuck. Right, sir, what *should* I be doing?" 

"What do you *want* to do to him?" 

"Tear him apart with my bare hands!" 

"With your *hands*, son...?" 

"I... well..." And Porthos frowns. 

"Follow it through, son." 

"I want to uh. To use my teeth, actually. A bit with my claws? Which I'll apparently... grow..." 

"That you will, son. But not *just* yet --" 

"Fuck fuck is this why my body feels all tight and weird and too *tall* and --" 

"Not *yet*, son --" 

"Sir, *please* -- fuck -- 's getting harder --" 

And Treville has never had the opportunity to put a magical lead on a witch he was *bound* to -- 

On his *son* -- 

But it's frighteningly easy to do. 

"Oh... shit, sir." And Porthos is blinking and smiling and standing straight -- 

Shaking himself out and beaming that incredible -- 

Treville is *staring* -- 

And Jason moves up beside him and kisses his ear. "Shall I put a lead on *you*, amant...?" 

"Absolutely, all the time, right now." 

Jason snorts. "Arse." 

Treville grins and nips that ever-beardless jaw. "As *soon* as I take that lead off, Porthos is going to be ready to tear Steal to tiny, twitching little strips. The iron he'll *keep* on his body while he's shifted will just improve things." 

"Very true," Jason says, and frowns thoughtfully. 

"Mm? Thought of something else?" 

"There's nothing to say we *can't* take *all* your sons with us, amant. The *moment* I break the geas on them, all their darkest dreams with regards to Steal can come true for them." 

This time, all of his boys are smiling. 

Ferociously. 

Treville's heart feels much, much better. 

Jason hums and smiles at him lovingly -- and then he looks around the sitting room and nods. "The All-Mother chose this location, didn't she?" 

"That she did, lover. You're thinking of all the iron, aren't you." 

"It's *perfect*. But we won't be sacrificing any of your father's or his lieutenants' weapons for this." Jason turns to Athos and Aramis. "Both of you stand there, if you please," he says, gesturing to the part of the floor getting the most sunlight from the large windows. 

They move immediately -- 

And Jason pulls a large, plain, and entirely un-cursed sword out of apparent nothingness -- but, truly, out of one of his storage armories -- joins them in the sunlight, and uses his fire-magery to *melt* the sword in his hand until it drips a rough circle around the three of them.

Treville raises an eyebrow. 

"Yes, I *know*, amant," Jason says, without actually looking at him. "But this will make it go faster, and give us a bit of insurance," he says, dripping the last of the sword's blade on Treville's poor, innocent rugs. "And, for that matter, your sons *ought* to know what *you* get all over these rugs." 

Treville coughs -- 

Porthos clears his throat. "I, for one, *was* enjoying the scents." 

"Good scents. Good scents," Aramis says, butting at the air, but it's clear that he's more nervous than anything else. 

Athos takes his hand and holds it -- 

Jason tosses Treville the useless hilt that Treville knows the man expects him to save *anyway*, pulls on tight-fitting leather gloves, and then he pulls an un-cursed dagger out of his armory -- the one on his hip is thoroughly cursed *and* poisoned -- and slashes open his own forearm, placing a preservation-spell on the wound to keep it open and not leaking. And that... 

"You'll be able to crack the geas with *just* your blood, lover?" 

"With a bit of force behind it. It's going to help *immensely* that your Mother has blessed these grounds countless times. And not to worry, Porthos -- your mate will *not* need to *consume* my blood before he consumes yours," Jason says, and smiles wickedly.

Treville checks -- Porthos is blinking and trying to *stop* shifting on his feet. Treville snorts. "Son." 

"*Look*. I have no *idea* why that's bloody important to me, but apparently it *is*."

"Did you not *notice* all the bite-scars on your mother?" 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville snickers and turns back to Jason -- 

"You're an *arse*, amant," he says, and he's painting a slash-mark in blood on Athos's throat-fur -- 

"That I am. For future reference --" 

"It is a *rare* Fae who will *risk* a soul-bond to a mortal of any sort whatsoever. But. This is nearly always a good method to get *around* it," Jason says. "Sunlight. The blessing of the All-Mother. The protection of the iron circle. The blood of someone sincerely invested in *ending* the slavery -- as opposed to merely wishing to transfer the ownership of the slave to themselves -- and willing to apply their *force* to that investment," he says, and paints further slashes at both wrists, cock, and ankles. 

He does the same for Aramis. 

"As soon as force -- and, of course, *will* -- are applied, the path to the Fae in question will gape wide from the center of the circle. The Fae -- who will be wounded to a degree commensurate with the force used -- will thus, of course, not be able to reach the caster, but the caster -- and the erstwhile slave or slaves -- will have no difficulty reaching the Fae," Jason says, and stands straight again, breaking the preservation-spell on the wound and allowing it to heal.

Treville nods. "Questions, boys?" 

Porthos looks to Athos and Aramis first, just as he should -- but their eyes are burning with singular purpose. Porthos nods and turns back to Treville and Jason. "Just one question, sir, and Jason: How are we getting back to... uh. *Where* are we getting back to?" 

He and Porthos had, in fact, started the day by deserting the regiment in the woods *rather* far from this manor, with the help of Porthos's mate... 

Jason snorts -- he'd caught all of that. "Really, Aramis, when it comes to Treville and the attentions of young men like yourself, you truly do just have to *ask*." 

"Very true, lover, but he wanted Porthos, too, and Porthos is *much* more responsible and continent." 

"I am *not*! Uh. Am I?" 

Treville makes a point of stroking his beard slowly and thoughtfully... 

"*Fuck* --" 

And Athos clears his throat. Mm. 

Treville hums and claps Porthos on the back. "I think my boys are ready, Jason."

"Yes. We are," Athos says. 

Aramis takes a shuddering breath -- 

Jason looks them over *once* -- and then nods, makes a fist, and sets it ablaze. Not to clean it -- *this* blaze is white-hot and *painful* to look at -- 

His boys are all flinching -- 

And there are howls and sobs and distinctly -- if incoherently -- Fae curses and pleas emanating from the now-*completely*-visible chains on Athos and Aramis. 

Briefly visible -- the chains are crumbling while they watch, and a ragged hole is opening in the air. Treville rolls his head on his neck and moves in, gesturing Porthos to follow. Both of them are growling and showing their teeth, and that's *just* fine, because his *other* boys are poised to spring. 

"Almost," Jason says -- 

The hole opens wider -- 

The view beyond it is dark, churning, *shifting* -- 

*Wrenching* -- 

The hole is big enough to eat half his sitting room -- 

"*Now*," Jason says, as the dust from the chains scatters -- 

As the edges of the hole flap in a hot, eldritch, sweetly-perfumed wind -- 

As they *leap* --


	6. A good courtier readies himself for any and every social situation.

\-- and skid to a *halt*, because they're in a bloody *throne* room, and bloody *Mab* is staring right down at them from her throne, surrounded by her courtier-assassins. The rest of the court is nowhere to be found, but -- 

But that's *quite* enough, especially if she decides to give sanctuary to the charred and bleeding *arsehole* currently kneeling prostrate at the foot of the dais. 

Treville bites back a snarl -- 

His sons don't manage that very well, at all -- 

Jason shoots him a *look* -- right. Treville has to do a *lot* better. 

He grips Porthos's shoulder again -- Get your mate to stand down, Porthos. *Now*. 

(What what --) 

NOW, he says, and *yanks* Porthos's lead. 

Porthos stiffens *hard* -- but then he breathes deep, just like that, and focuses on Aramis -- 

And Aramis makes a sharp, juddering sound that's still so quiet and *hurt* -- 

But he stands down -- and Athos follows his lead. 

And then he and Jason belatedly move to one knee -- 

His boys follow suit -- 

And Mab smiles, small and coldly amused. "Who speaks for your party...?" 

(Well, amant...?) 

*You* do. 

(As you say.) "I do, Your Majesty. I am Jason --" 

"We know precisely who you are, Ser Jason. You will forgive us for... altering your iron to something more suitable to our presence." 

"Of course, Your Majesty. Had we known we would be entering your presence --" 

"You would have dressed accordingly...?" 

"But of course." 

Mab cocks her head to the side, headdress tinkling with countless bells which seem to be fashioned from *ice*. The throne itself is marble, and everything around is some shade or another of white. 

It might as well be designed to make mortals of most species feel grubby and small and out of place, and the best that can be said for it is that Steal is currently staining it abominably as he bleeds all over it. 

But Mab just narrowed her pale lavender eyes. That's a bit problematic --

(Indeed, amant.) "Your Majesty?" 

"We believe you *would* remove your human weapons were you to come to us by choice." 

(Ah.) 

That statement was *helpful*, Jason? 

(Possibly?) "I believe you know me, at least in part, by my reputation for warring on certain representatives of your people. I would like to take this opportunity to state that I have never once considered myself at war with *you*, Your Majesty, nor with the *whole* of your people." 

She cocks her head to the other side -- 

Bells tinkle and bring the whisper of *cruel* winters -- 

And then she nods. "You have not been human for a very long time, Ser Jason." 

"Just so, Your Majesty." 

"The same cannot be said for the company you keep." 

"Respectfully, Your Majesty... the company you're currently keeping does not speak very well for your Court." 

Well, fuck. 

She narrows her *eyes* -- 

Treville prepares to *release* Porthos's lead and hope for the best -- 

(You never *trust* me, amant --) 

I trust you with my *life* and *heart* and *soul*, you arsehole! Now fix this!

(Well. Since you put it that way...) "If I may, Your --" 

"No." 

(Hm.) 

Fuck fuck fuck -- 

Porthos is looking at Treville like he's trying to decide between smacking both him and Jason with his hat and just asking the All-Mother to swallow the realm and start *over* -- 

And then the tinkle of bells comes again -- 

Mab is leaning back and crossing her legs -- 

Tapping long-nailed fingers on the arms of her throne -- 

And showing teeth when she smiles, *exactly* like she can tell *precisely* how terrified they all are -- 

The *courtiers* are all bloody smiling, *too* -- 

There is absolutely no way in *any* of the hells that they can get past her *and* her courtiers without heavy *casualties* -- 

(Steady, amant.) 

These are my children, lover. 

(And I will protect them with my *soul*,) Jason says, turning *away* from Mab to give him... a very, very steadying look, actually. 

Like a hot, heavy hand on the back of his neck. 

Treville sighs, and breathes, and -- accepts. 

(Mon amant...) 

My lover. Always.

Jason gleams at him with those bloody-burning eyes. (Oh, yes,) he says, and turns back to Mab -- 

Who is smiling wryly. "We have decided to allow you to communicate amongst yourselves as you would, Ser Jason. That said, there are limits to our patience." 

"Of course, Your Majesty," Jason says, just as smoothly as you please. "If you would tell me what you would like to know --" 

"You claim that our... subject," she says, gesturing to Steal and wrinkling her nose slightly, "speaks poorly of our Court. I have decided not to have you summarily executed for this." 

"I appreciate this far more than I can ever adequately express, Your Majesty --" 

"You will, instead, explain to everyone here *how* our subject has... stained our honour," she says, and her voice is low and hard and colder than her bells -- which have gone silent. 

Several of the courtiers closest to the throne jerk out of their complacent poses and whirl to face her -- 

Several of the courtiers farther *away* from the throne smile *savagely* and *caress* their weapons -- while looking at the *other* courtiers -- 

But Mab doesn't change her expression one bit. Well, well, well. 

(Indeed. Let's *not* --) 

Get in the middle of a Fae civil war? *Agreed*. 

(Still, we do have business,) Jason says, and clears his throat *delicately*. "As you say, Your Majesty. I have known -- and known *of* -- the subject you've indicated for one-hundred seventy-eight years, through the many connections and allies I maintain in the numberless realms. I will, however, restrict my report to the information I am absolutely certain of." 

Mab inclines her head. 

"Your subject is a rapist, murderer, and *torturer* of children. While we shall agree to disagree *quite* equably over your people's policy of the... removal of human and other mortal children from their homes and families, we have *never* disagreed on one thing --" 

"And that is, Ser Jason?" 

"The bargains are fair, Your Majesty. The bargains are made with clear eyes and open hands -- and the children do not then fall into lives of misery, torture, bloodshed, *rape*, and despair," Jason says, and gestures to Athos and Aramis. "You came to know a great deal of what was done to our companions when you examined them for weapons of iron, and I daresay you came to know who *did* it. I swear to you now, on *everything* I hold dear, that we are *only* here now to take vengeance on the man who did those terrible things -- and so many *other* things utterly anathemic to the *foundation* of your Court -- and that --" 

"You will leave when your vengeance is accomplished...?"

Jason inclines his head -- "Just so, Your Majesty."

Treville tugs on Porthos's lead -- and Treville and his sons all, with some minor delays, incline theirs. Aramis, especially, has spent the past ten minutes or so looking as though he'd like nothing better than to ignore the *extreme* danger to all of their existences and start *working* on Steal -- 

(Can you blame him, sir?) And Porthos sounds -- and *feels* -- too angry for Fae politics *or* any of the rest of this. 

Treville sighs internally and checks -- Mab is, at the very least, putting on a *show* of thinking about what Jason said, steepling her fingers and narrowing her eyes.

The courtiers are tense --

So is he. But -- No, son, I can't blame any of you for needing to end that stain, at all. But I *need* to get all of you home after this. To keep all of you *safe*, now that it's *reasonably* possible. 

There's a pause -- (Not so reckless after all...) 

I promise to improve my performance -- 

(Please don't!) 

Treville hums -- and keeps the rest of his focus on the courtier-assassins. He trusts Jason to keep a weather-eye on Mab, and the courtiers -- absolutely all of them -- look *enraged*. 

Fae can disguise their scents just as easy as breathing -- and they've all been doing just that since *they* had arrived -- and, of course, they all know exactly how to keep their *magic* from betraying them -- 

When they're not doing helpfully idiotic things like binding their souls to *mortals* in the interests of *torture*, anyway -- 

But. Their forms aren't static, and *most* of them take *full* advantage of that fact, shifting with every whim and *flex* of passion. The courtiers had all chosen forms designed to overawe Treville's pack with their pale beauty -- they, of course, had to match the *furnishings* -- and lissome strength. It was impressive enough, but now it's clear that *most* of them aren't *accustomed* to those forms, because they're showing their emotional upheaval *clearly*. 

The courtiers closest to Mab are seething and pretending to look at nothing, at all -- but can't keep themselves from shooting *venomous* looks at her every few moments. 

The ones furthest away... 

Well, some of them have started aiming their weapons *at* Steal. Some -- including some of the ones threatening Steal -- are moving in a *failed* attempt to look subtle about flanking the *first* rank of courtiers. 

Things are getting very, very dangerous in this room -- 

(Possibly in this *realm*, amant.) 

Is Steal *nobility* in this realm?

(I do *not* know for certain... but it would be one of the *very* few answers which would make sense. The Fae *value* children *highly* -- and *not* as currency --) 

There are outliers in every society -- 

(And the Fae have, in my experience, *always* made a point of *destroying* -- not merely killing -- outliers like *that*, amant --) 

(Not quickly enough,) Athos says quietly, and with absolute dignity. 

(Agreed,) Jason says -- 

*Agreed*, Treville says, and winces -- 

Porthos growls under his breath -- stops himself before Treville has to do anything. 

Aramis makes his scents rise, just a little, to give comfort to all of them. 

Good sons. Wonderful -- 

And the ice-bells tinkle decisively -- 

Mab sits straight -- 

Spares a glance for the *shaking* Steal at the foot of the dais -- and curls her lip before lifting her head once more, and looking at no one, at all, as shafts of pale lavender light *pierce* the courtiers who were looking at her most venomously -- 

They scream in soundless shock -- 

And then they're gone, just like that, leaving *nothing* but grey *dust* behind --

(... and their Queen's weakness...) 

Treville blinks and *looks* -- 

And Mab is almost *slumped* in her throne, even as the other courtiers move to take the dead courtiers' places *around* the throne. Now, their threat is aimed at *them* again. 

Protective. 

Treville can *understand* that, but -- 

"We are still here for only *one* thing, Your Majesty," Jason says. 

Mab laughs then, low and throaty and... ancient. She sounds like someone *living* when she laughs like that. She sounds like -- 

"A woman, Treville?" 

Treville blinks. "I -- Your Majesty --" 

She waves a dismissive -- and obviously *weak* hand. "It's of nothing. We will not ask a father to speak objectively for his sons." 

Jason inclines his head again. "We thank you for this --" 

"A nation," Mab says, and coughs -- 

The courtiers crowd closer -- 

Mab *growls* and sits *straight*. "A *nation* rises and falls on its *people*. *All* of its people, no matter how small, no matter how *weak*. You have wondered why our subject was not swept aside like *dust* on our *floors*. Yes?" 

"Yes," Jason says. "But you need not --" 

"*Tell* us!" And that was *Athos* -- 

Aramis is gripping his arm -- but *his* eyes are blazing, as well. 

For a moment, Mab's eyes are only soft, only *hurt* -- 

Treville's boys look *confused* -- 

And the wrong of it all -- hits. *Finally* hits, because, yes, Fae kidnap children, but only because they have such a hard time *breeding*. They -- 

They -- the vast majority of them -- are trying to build families, in any way they can. 

They're... not so different from him. 

Mab looks to *him* -- 

Smiles with rueful *pain* -- 

The courtiers who have been all but climbing up the dais climb a little *higher* -- she gestures them back, and smooths her gown unnecessarily. 

"A nation rises and falls on its people," she says again, "and *we* have fallen. We have grown weak, and corrupt, as many of us grew fascinated with the powers and possibilities inherent to magic not our own -- no. No, that is, in itself, a *weak* statement," she says, and bares her teeth. 

"Your Majesty...?" 

She breathes, closes her eyes for a moment, and then opens them again; they are even more pale than they were before. "I believe you, Ser Jason, know that my people can take power from the blood of mortals, no matter *how* that blood is taken." 

"Yes, Your Majesty. It is often... ill-advised..." 

She laughs low again. "To say the least, Ser Jason. What you may not be aware of is that the power taken from such acts does not *only* weaken my people in *magical* ways." 

They're *all* blinking for that, but Treville can feel Jason getting that *particular* kind of hungry he gets whenever there's new *knowledge* in the offing. 

"No, Your Majesty...?" 

She smiles sharply. "No, Ser Jason. We grow fixated. We grow... needy. We grow... lesser." 

Jason inhales sharply. "Would you say there is a sort of... addiction...?" 

"We are small when we take the blood of mortals against their will, and then we simply grow smaller and smaller than that, Ser Jason. But, still and all, there were those within our nation who would have it that the blood -- and pain, and fear, and *suffering* -- was coming only from mortals. Only from *lesser* beings, and, so, was of no consequence whatsoever," she says, and raises a white eyebrow. 

"Hm. There 'were' those, Your Majesty...?" 

At that, every last remaining courtier smiles... savagely. Mab's smile is ancient again. "We did not only remove the most troublesome of our courtiers, Ser Jason. When there is a sickness in one's body, one must cut it out." 

They're all *blinking* again -- 

Jason licks his lips -- "Ah. All of it, Your Majesty...?" 

"Every. Last. Canker," she says, and gestures --

The remaining courtiers fall on Steal with silent, brutal efficiency, hacking him apart as he sobs and screams and gurgles his life away on the throne room floor. 

When it's done -- seeming moments later -- one of the courtiers gestures and heat-less black flame takes the last twitching pieces.

And *then* the screams get even louder for *long* moments, until the courtier makes a fist -- and the flames wink out, taking every trace of Steal from the room. 

Athos clears his throat. 

Mab smiles with rueful gentleness. "Ask," she says softly. 

"What have you done with his -- soul, Your Majesty?" 

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that question, Athos -- save to tell you that his punishment will not end until such time as I see fit. Does that suit?" 

Athos shudders once -- 

Twice -- 

And says nothing. 

Mab nods with a frown. She knows the answer as well as any of them do: Nothing truly can. 

After a long moment, she takes another deep breath, sits back, and seems to pull on the *icy* Queen of Faerie by main force. "Athos. Aramis. Were it in our power to return everything that was stolen from you, we would do so immediately, and do so tenfold. Since it is not and never can be, know with all of yourselves that we consider ourselves -- and our nation -- to be in your debt. Do not hesitate to call upon that debt in any way, in any realm, at any time. 

"Porthos. You have been admirably controlled, considering how your mate has fared in our realms, and by this and many other things, I know that you have come to trust your father implicitly, as he has come to trust you. Were it in our power to do so, we would fill our nation with families precisely like your own, so that we would never fall so far as we have again. Since it is not and never can be, we can do nothing but use some measure of our remaining power to bless your family -- both the family that roils and rolls through your blood, and the family and pack you are building around you as we speak. May you always stand in love and trust and companionship -- and inspiration to those of us in need. 

"Captain Treville. Ser Jason. I have looked within you as much as my own power and the power given to me by my realms has allowed, and I have seen... love. Powerful, endless, marvelous and marveling love. You both accept what others -- many, many others -- nominally like you would find unacceptable with ease, grace, and *speed*, and you do so without one moment of resentment. This, too, is admirable, and inspirational, but I must call my court's -- my *nation's* -- attention especially to the way Lieutenant Treville took in and *encompassed* his children after bare hours of knowing them --" 

"I --" 

Mab glares at him. 

Hard. 

Jason is glaring, *too* -- 

Even though he's not actually *looking* -- 

Treville shuts it. 

Mab nods once. "... And Ser Jason opened his heart to *all* of them after only *minutes*. This is who we should be. *This* is who we have *forgotten* how to be in the midst of our games and follies and intrigues and *ennui*. 

"This is what we must remember. 

"We have never been anything *more* than a people on the razor-edge of extinction, due to our essential *weaknesses* -- and we must not ever forget that in the dance and heady rush of our *powers*. We *must* build our families, and do it with love. 

"Always, always love."

Treville shivers -- 

The rest of his pack isn't doing much *better* -- 

And Mab nods again. "Captain Treville. Ser Jason. We are in your debt for bringing to us word of our erstwhile subject's crimes, and thus allowing our Court to bring him and every last one of his associates to... something resembling justice," she says, and bares her teeth again, but only for a moment before she regains her even countenance. "For this you have more than earned the right to wear whatever weapons you wish in our presence, and everywhere else in our realms," she says, and gestures -- 

Treville feels a slight *tug* -- and then dozens of small twigs and leaves are falling away from him, and he can *feel* that his weapons are back where they belong. Still -- 

He touches his rapier just to *see* -- Guillou is still screaming. Good. 

"We assure you, Captain -- your mate's murderer did not stop screaming in your rapier for one moment while it was... with us." 

Treville nods. "I appreciate that, Your Majesty. More than I can express." 

She inclines her head and turns to Jason. "The same is true for the individuals in *your* arms and armor, Ser Jason." 

"Thank you very much for that, Your Majesty, though, as I am quite certain you can tell, their suffering is no longer quite so important to me as it once was."

She cocks her head to the side, bells tinkling. "Does that mean you *free* the souls in your weapons after a time, Ser Jason?" 

"Ah..." Jason coughs -- 

Treville bites his lip to fight back a smile -- 

(I love you, sir, but you're an arse.) 

That I am, son. Say, what happens if you call me something other than 'sir'? 

(Uhh...) And Porthos blushes hotter than *flame* -- 

Treville *grins* -- 

(*Arse* --) 

And Mab hums and *focuses* on Jason. "You were saying, Ser Jason?" 

"Ah... that is to say, Your Majesty, that if I have already taken the step of *imprisoning* someone in my weaponry or armor, I... have essentially *surrendered* the idea of ever *forgiving* them." 

She hums. "Thank you very much for that information," she says, and crosses her legs again. 

She seems to already be strengthening again -- 

She *smiles* at Treville -- 

Breathes *deep* -- 

The throne room *shimmers* around them, offering tantalizing glimpses of a snowy forest that *feels* like it goes on for hundreds of miles at the very *least* -- 

The scents are *amazing* -- 

(Amant...) 

And when Treville *can* focus on Mab again -- she's harder, stronger, more *vital* than she had been. Treville nods to himself. She's taking something *from* the construction of the throne room around them, perhaps from the whole Fae *capital* -- assuming that's where they are. She'll be fine. 

Her expression quirks as she *studies* Treville -- "What..."

And Jason laughs softly. "I believe, Your Majesty, that you have noticed mon amant's *remarkable* protectiveness." 

*Treville* blushes and rubs in front of his ear with a finger. 

Her expression quirks even more. "So we have," she says, and gestures them to their feet, at last. "Aramis. Athos. Are there any boons we may give you *now*, before we allow you to leave our presence?" 

Aramis and Athos share a look -- 

Look to him, Porthos, and Jason -- 

Look to their *weapons* for some reason -- and when they both turn back to Mab, Aramis speaks. "Athos and I cleaved to each other when... your former subject forced us together. We had *only* each other. Before I came, Athos had no one, at all. I saw this thing very quickly, and so gave Athos everything I could. *Everything*. Including... all of my dreams.

"All of my *desires*, from when I was a human boy, and was *free*." And he raises his little cream eyebrows at her. 

She takes a breath. "Yes, we see. You wished to be... a Musketeer."

Porthos blinks and *reaches* for his Aramis, physically and not. 

Treville's heart hurts again -- 

And Mab turns to Athos. "And you wish for this, as well, Athos? Truly?" 

"Even before I was given Aramis's beautiful dreams, and even more beautiful *knowledge*, your... former subject would taunt me with what he knew of my family. I knew that I had a human father who was the *Captain* of the King's Musketeers. I knew... where I wished to be," he says, and smiles wryly. "Please. Is it *possible* for us to be made human again?" 

He and Jason are *wincing* -- 

Porthos *feels* it enough to be wincing, *too* -- 

"No," Mab says, and *all* of the courtiers look both thunderously angry and *ill* with what's been done to Athos and Aramis. "However, our debt to you is great, and there are *options*," she says, and bares her teeth again.

The courtiers are blinking and staring -- 

Reaching for her -- 

She gestures curtly and stands, and walks down from the throne to cup both Aramis's and Athos's faces in her hands. "In a better era, we would have taken you for our own." 

"No. Please," Aramis says, and steps back. 

She nods. "You have seen only the worst of us. Let us give you... something else," she says, and pricks her index fingertips with her thumbnails. They immediately begin leaking a thick, clear liquid -- 

The courtiers are gasping, shocked, *staring* -- 

The air is filled with a *riot* of scents, of flowers, lush life, lush *heat* that doesn't match anything in the *room* -- 

Treville is *growling* -- 

Porthos is *straining* at the lead Treville has on him -- 

Jason is panting and licking his lips -- 

And Athos and Aramis are suckling helplessly, too close to the source of all those *perfect* scents to resist even a little, to resist for even long enough to ask what they were *taking* -- 

"The bargain is fair, Captain Treville," she says. "The bargain must always, always be fair." And she tugs her fingers free from the boys' mouths -- 

They blink up at her, wet-mouthed and *dazed* -- 

And Mab cups Athos's furry cheek. "You both have just as much power to shift your form as I do now." 

That -- 

"Among other things, Your Majesty...?" And Jason's eyebrow is up no higher than Treville's and Porthos's are -- 

*Jason* can't *smell* everything they can on the boys now -- 

*In* the boys -- 

*Fuck* -- 

Mab smiles warmly, sharply, *acquisitively* -- and a dozen other things at once. More. She strokes the boys' cheek-fur and *then* steps back, folding her hands in front of her. "We can never repay any of you, Ser Jason. Not truly," she says, and her eyes darken and *harden*. "That does not mean we will allow those we have wronged to live without that which they need."

Her courtiers arrange themselves behind her in a wall of power and *absolute* loyalty --

And the dismissal is clear enough.

They all bow low, Athos and Aramis shimmering almost *violently* as they do. They'll need some practice and training -- 

(They will have it, amant. And if you even *think* of thanking me for this -- )

How about I just love you forever? 

(That would be acceptable *enough*...) 

Treville smiles and stands straight -- 

And then they damned well take their leave through the hole they'd made in the air, Jason taking point and Treville picking up the rear. By the time they're back in his smithy-scented sitting room, the hole is shutting up behind them, and nothing can be seen through it but a blank, snowy-white nothingness. 

Treville nods. Well enough. He checks on his shimmering children -- still shimmering, and very clearly *trying* to achieve... some form or another that is *not* faun-ish. 

"Human, my Daddy!" 

"*Yes*," Athos grits, clenching blurry hands into blurry fists -- 

"Uh. Does it help, at all, to know that we all think you're perfect just the way you are?" And Porthos shares his hopeful scents *instinctively* -- 

"My Porthos," Aramis says, and *stops* shimmering -- 

And narrows his *eyes* -- 

"Fuck -- uh. Yes, precious? Also, I'm apologizing right now --" 

"My Porthos, do you *wish* for us to stay in the forms we were *forced* to take?" 

"No! Unless you're all *right* with that! I mean -- *shit* --" 

Athos huffs and *also* stops shimmering. "That was very cruel, brother." 

Aramis smiles sharply and moves close to Porthos, reaching up to wrap his arms around his neck. "My Porthos. Steal grew bored with us very, very quickly after he forced us to take these forms." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"Mm. Quite," Athos says, and studies his hard, black fingers. "We thought, at first, that it was simply a matter of him having a fixation on human children, among all of his other fixations --" 

"But, now, it has become clear that his *true* fixation was on the *thrill* of keeping us away from the people who meant to take us *back*. Once he changed us, and they could not *find* us..." 

"The thrill, such as it was, was gone," Athos says, and smiles wryly. 

"Which is to say, my beautiful Porthos..." 

Porthos rumbles, eyes flaring a *beautiful* leafy green -- 

Aramis looks *thrilled* -- and smells that way, too. "Which is to *say*, in truth, the only *emotional* hardship to these forms is that, in the *past*, they kept us from those who would love us, and, in the *present*, they are keeping us from having our *dreams*." 

"Right, I -- *right*," Porthos says. "I've got it now, love --" 

"Which brings us to the point," Athos says, looking back and forth between Jason and Treville. "*Can* one of you teach us how to shift to human form? I *miss* myself. I -- Steal would taunt me, from time to time, about how much I was growing to resemble my... father." 

Treville inhales sharply. "Oh, son -- son --" He growls. "You *do* look like him. You look like him *now*. You look like *both* of your parents." 

"Oh -- I..." 

"Which is to *say*, Jason says, and grins, "that we can and *will* *both* train you. Starting momentarily with *me*, after I return Treville and Porthos to their regiment." 

"Oh -- *shit* --" *Porthos* looks *stricken* -- 

Which absolutely means he was making plans involving the delightful little boy in his arms --

"He's my *mate*, sir!" 

"If you call me something better than 'sir', I'll consider relenting..." 

"What -- *really*?" 

Treville makes a show of thinking about it... 

"Shit shit fuck shit fuck -- uh -- Father?" 

Treville is reasonably certain that *he* looks stricken now -- 

"For fuck's *sake*, you arsehole, I'm under a bit of pressure here!" 

Treville coughs and snickers and gestures Porthos away from Aramis -- 

"Aww --" 

"My *Daddy* --" 

"It's just two days, boys," Treville says, smiling gently. "Two days in which my *best* man is *desperately* needed to continue the process of improving my *other* men --" 

"Oh -- fuck --" 

"-- and, hopefully, looking less suspicious after disappearing with the Captain for..." He checks the position of the sun -- "Five hours. I *have* to adopt all of you, and I will *not* have *any* of you under a cloud if I can at all help it.*After* those two days? I can and *will* give Porthos an *extended* leave to spend with his pack -- and especially his mate, who will be able to touch his mind and heart and soul from a distance the *entire* time," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos takes a deep breath and turns to check on Aramis, just the way he should. 

Aramis smiles ruefully at *him* -- and then turns and tugs Porthos down into a hard, hot, *wet* kiss that *quickly* turns into a great deal of licking and lapping and nuzzling and butting and more licking from both of them. 

Treville sighs happily and checks on Athos -- talking quietly with Jason about shifter theory. 

He has the best boys. 

(You're also *beautifully* possessive, amant...) 

I don't know what you're talking about. I often let you get several *feet* away from the bed.

(On my knees, even...) Jason grins at him from across the room, hot and promising. 

Mm, that -- 

And then Porthos is gripping him by the arm and yanking him *away* from Jason -- "Right, then, *Daddy* --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Time for us to get back to the *regiment* --" 

"Son --" 

"-- so we can all *work* and *train* and *sweat* with people who *don't* want to lick it away --" 

"Well, actually..." 

"What --" And Porthos looks him in the eye -- 

Treville looks back with his eyebrows up -- 

Porthos's jaw drops -- but only for a moment. "Uh. I'd -- forgotten that," he says, and *stops* hauling on Treville, which is tragic -- 

He never wants his son to be -- 

"I'm not uncomfortable!" 

Treville raises his eyebrows helplessly. 

Porthos blushes like a *boy* --

And Jason claps his hands. "*Well*, I think that's our cue."


	7. In which Treville fails to answer another question without first making things even more difficult than they were before.

When he thinks about it, Porthos is not even a little bit surprised that Jason hadn't dropped them off all that *close* to the regiment. Just -- of *course* he wants to give him and Treville time to talk. 

He'd do the same thing, in Jason's position.

Still, Porthos can't hear *or* smell the regiment, which, given what his senses have been doing to him these last couple of hours... 

Treville grunts beside him as they walk in the direction Jason had pointed them in. "The wind's not with us, son. We're only a couple of miles away." 

"Right, all right," he says, and keeps walking. 

And keeps walking. 

And keeps -- wait. 

"Mm?" 

"What *exactly* are we going to say, sir?" 

Treville hums. "I was planning to say that I'd gone for a piss, and then stare *meanly* at people until *they* had to piss." 

"You're an arsehole, sir." 

"That I am, son. It's useful, at times." 

"I don't know if I can *be* that much of an arsehole, sir --" 

"No, don't try. You're too soft-hearted --" 

"I --" 

"It becomes you. Try..." Treville hitches his saddlebag on his shoulder and strokes his beard a couple of times --

Porthos knows, now, *exactly* how soft that beard is -- 

"You got worried when you noticed I was missing, and you went hunting for me. And, eventually, you found me. Heading back in this direction." 

"I -- hunh." 

"Mm?" 

"Did I bloody get *lost* or something? It's been five *hours*!"

"Your woodcraft's too good for that, son --" 

"This is what *I'm* saying --" 

"Ah. Well. My woodcraft *is* better," Treville says, and *grins*, showing his *tongue* -- 

And Porthos knows exactly what that feels like, too. 

Treville inhales sharply -- and puts his tongue away -- 

Fuck -- 

"Son..." 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry --" 

"Shh," Treville says, and, "It's all right, son. We... well. We walked into an *extremely* awkward situation today --" 

"But." 

"Mm?" 

"*You're* saying that it's not just *today* for you. I mean -- we've *both* been saying that. And *meaning* that." 

Treville inhales again, longer and deeper this time. "Son... we can leave it alone," Treville says, and looks at him, long and steady. "We can leave *all* of that alone." 

Porthos blinks and just... thinks about that. 

(Do that, son,) Treville says, and faces front once more as they keep walking. 

Just -- 

Gives Porthos his stern, hard, perfect *profile* -- 

That expression that always means the *Captain* knows exactly what's going on with everyone and everything *everywhere*, and that absolutely *all* of it is under control. 

*His* control. In -- 

In his *hands* -- 

And Porthos knows what they feel like, too. 

Not. Not enough of what they feel like. Not -- 

*Fuck*. He can't do this, can't *think* these things, can't -- 

Treville is his *father* -- 

Treville is -- 

And Mum would -- 

Porthos growls and *stops*, right there in the middle of the woods -- and Treville stops, too, hanging his head. That... 

That stops the thoughts. It stops everything. Porthos frowns. "Sir, why are *you* ashamed?" 

Treville looks up, into Porthos's eyes, and *his* eyes are both bleak and wry. "Son. A *large* part of me is, right now, *only* thinking about how I might delay our return to the regiment even more," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

That. "You're. You're actually thinking of seducing me." 

Treville nods once. 

"Not just -- I mean. I know Jason wanted us to talk about this..." 

"He did," Treville says, and lifts his chin a little -- but only for a moment. He winces, and lowers it again. 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. "He maybe... he maybe wanted more than talk?" 

"Son... please don't blame Jason." 

"No, I... he loves you," Porthos says, and swallows. "D'you..." 

"Mm? Ask. Ask everything." 

"Right, I." Porthos shifts on his feet -- 

Breathes deep -- 

Breathes in the scents of Treville's salt and sweat and *shame* -- 

He can't -- 

Porthos just wants to lick it *away* -- 

And Treville steps back. *Away*. *Twice*. 

"*Sir* --" 

"*Ask*, son." 

Porthos frowns. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I hate being any sort of distance away from you, too, son, but... I don't want to make you uncomfortable." 

"I'm not --" But. Porthos growls. "I don't *want* to be uncomfortable with you, sir!" 

Treville licks his lips, quick and neat -- "What do you want, son." 

"I --" 

"No. Tell me -- *ask* me -- what you didn't ask *before*." 

Porthos frowns *harder*. 

Treville laughs breathlessly. "I apologize, son, I -- I *promise* you that I will *always* want to know what you want," he says, and covers his face with his hands. 

Which -- "This. Somehow all of this is getting you hot..." 

Treville growls and drags his hands down off his face, mussing his moustache and beard -- 

Porthos remembers what it looked like after he couldn't stop licking Treville's mouth and *face* -- 

"Son..." 

Porthos blinks -- and *actually* thinks about things.

Thinks about what *he's* been thinking about -- 

*Feeling* about -- and letting Treville see and hear and feel and smell and *taste* every moment of. 

Treville smiles ruefully -- but it's still *hard* on his face. "Don't even think of blaming yourself, son." 

"I --" 

"Don't do it." 

"*Sir*." 

Treville nods once. "All right, son. Let's change things round a bit." 

"Sir?" 

"We're bound by blood -- and a whole lot of other things. We have been since your mother and I knelt in that Circle made by her guardians and... well. I'll tell you all about it one day." 

"Please do, sir! But --" 

"*But*. You're bound to *Aramis*, as well. To your *mate*. You can feel it all through you, can't you?" 

"Fuck -- *yes*, sir!" 

Treville nods again. "Good boys, all of you. Here's a hypothetical situation that's going to sound a *little* familiar." 

"I... yeah?" 

"Mm. You're randy as a... goat for your Aramis. You want him in *every* way you can have him, and you want him right *now*. With me so far?" 

Porthos laughs ruefully. "Very much so, sir!" 

Treville winks. "I *think* you can guess how I might come to know a few things about that...?" 

Porthos *snorts*. "Right, right, I *hear* you, sir." 

"I thought you might. But I was saying -- you're randy. You're aching. You're close enough to smell his every *mood*-shift --" 

"Oh, shit -- he smells so good when he's *prickly* --" 

"That he does. And he smells even better when *he's* randy -- which he is. Not *very*. Not *completely* -- but a little." 

"Oh, *yeah* -- but." Porthos frowns. "But then why aren't we..." He blinks. "You're saying he's something else *more* than he's randy. Something... negative?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Maybe he's a little unsure, son. Maybe he's a little... uncomfortable. About something. Anything, at all." 

Porthos winces. "And I'm still losing my mind for all of his *hot* scents -- *fuck* -- how do I *avoid* that? How do I keep my -- control," Porthos says, and stops, and thinks -- 

And thinks about the *space* between him and Treville -- 

And about how much he *wouldn't* even come *close* to blaming Aramis for how needy *he* got -- 

And -- 

"Sir..." 

"Son. Tell me what you need. Tell me *everything* you need." 

"'m. I can't stop thinking... about Mum." 

Treville inhales again -- "Of course." 

"What did *she* think -- I mean. Were you, you know, making love with boys when she knew --" 

Treville coughs -- 

"... you?" 

Treville *barks* -- and then yips and *yips* laughter -- 

"Uhh... is that a...?" 

"Son, I -- fuck -- I --" Treville coughs and goes to lean against a tree as he coughs more laughter -- 

"Sir --" 

"Just a -- oh, fuck, son, we spent most of the night we *met* making *jokes* about how much time I spent with my face in the arses of young boys!" 

Porthos stares. Just -- 

"She knew *everything* about me, son. And I -- oh. Oh, son, I knew everything about her. Everything we *could* know, in the time we were given," Treville says, sobering some and licking his lips. "I... our *last* night together, before I left on that damned *mission*, and after we had tucked you away in the crib in my bedroom -- this was in my rooms in Paris, not the manor, and I'll show you --" 

"Right, but tell me about *Mum* --" 

"Of course, son," Treville says, and *finally* comes closer again -- 

But doesn't touch him -- 

Treville smiles *wryly* again -- and cups Porthos's shoulders, hard and strong and so *reassuring*. 

Porthos sighs. "Thank you, sir."

"Oh, son -- is it better when I touch you this way?" 

"It's better --" When your hands are on me, full stop. "Uhh..." 

Treville bites the tip of his tongue. "The feeling is mutual, son, *but* -- we were discussing your mother," he says, and raises both eyebrows.

Porthos breathes. "I -- yes, sir. For -- right now." 

Treville nods and squeezes Porthos's shoulders again. "For right now, then. I... I need you to know that I plan on spending the rest of my *life* making sure you boys have everything you need, son." 

Porthos smiles a little. "And Jason, too?" 

Treville hums. "He's a *remarkably* easy man to take care of, when you get down to it, son. Cuddles; large amounts of rare and/or well-spiced meat; intelligent conversation; properly-directed violence --" 

"Occasionally terrifying sex?" 

"The terrifying sex is *rare*, son. We mostly just keep things good and disturbing." 

"Oh, of course, of course," Porthos says, nodding and frowning judiciously. 

Treville smiles up at him, warm and *obviously* loving and *proud* -- 

His scents are *incredible* -- 

"So are yours, son. Always. But I was talking about your mother --" 

"Does Jason... uh." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos blushes and just -- he'll just sodding say it -- 

"That you will, son..." 

"Right, is he *always* going to put likely boys and men in your *path*. And -- and women, too," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Treville blinks -- 

*Blushes* -- 

"I..." 

"Was that a *yes*?" 

"Son, I... we've gone whoring together many times, but..." Treville shakes his head. 

"This is... different?" 

"This is *pack*, son. You -- you *are* my son. I would *like* for you to be *Jason's* son --" 

"Uh -- wait -- did you even *ask* him that?" 

"Son, I don't *have* to. We've been brothers for over nineteen *years* --" 

"What -- oh --" 

"He wasn't *always* a part of my first pack -- we weren't *perfect* at communicating with each other, at first -- but he helped *raise* Thomas with Laurent and Marie-Angelique and me. He was there for Thomas *more* than either Laurent or me, since *we* were on campaign off and on for years --" 

"Fuck!" And Porthos grins and laughs. "That's beautiful!" 

Treville raises his eyebrows again. "Yes? That helps?" 

"No, I -- I mean, *yes*, it *absolutely* does, sir. It's just -- he hadn't seemed the family *type* at first. Goes to show that you shouldn't make *assumptions*." 

"That's *right*, son. Now, on to the *meat* of your question --" 

"No, it's -- I *get* it, I think. *He* needs this to work just as much as... all of us do. Right?" 

"Yes --" 

"And that means he needs all of us to be comfortable and happy and to have *everything* we need, no matter what it is." 

Another proud smile. 

Porthos *blushes* again. 

"My boy. My *heart*. *Any* man would want to have you as a son." 

"Aw, sir --" 

"Any man with a *mind* in his head," Treville says, squeezing Porthos's shoulders again before stroking up to the back of Porthos's neck with his right hand. 

"Oh -- sir?" 

"Is this all right, son?" And Treville searches Porthos's eyes -- 

Flares his nostrils -- 

"I will *not* make you uncomfortable again --" 

"No, sir, I -- it's fine. I *love* your hands on me. I -- I always have." 

"*I* have always -- no. I apologize," Treville says, wincing and shaking his head once -- 

"*Sir* --" 

"Let me *stop* myself from attempting to seduce you, son. *Please*." 

"It's just *conversation* --" 

"It *isn't*." 

But -- "It's your *honesty*, sir," Porthos says, and looks *into* Treville, just as much as he can. "I *know* you know how much I need that." 

Treville narrows his eyes and growls low. "Son. Son..." 

"Sir." 

"Son, I need just the *same* --" 

"I *know*, sir --" 

"Every time you blush, I dream of biting your cheeks -- before I bite you all over your beautiful *body*." 

"Oh --" 

"Every time you talk about wanting my *hands* on you, I dream of using my *power* to hold you down as I toss you *off*, rough and *slow* --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"When you *think* about my *tongue* --" 

"Sir -- sir, *please* --" 

And Treville takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell me if you're stopping me, son. Please." And that sounded more like an *order* than any -- 

Any -- 

Porthos is gulping air and leaking all *over* his breeches -- 

Taking Treville's *scents* -- 

"Oh, son..."

"Sir, I -- I don't know -- I don't *know* -- *nnh* -- " 

And Treville squeezes him again, shoulder and neck, squeezes firmly -- 

And Porthos can breathe. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir." 

"My boy. My good boy. Tell me..." 

"Yes, sir? Please, I'll tell you *anything* --" 

Treville winces and loosens his grip on the back of Porthos's neck -- 

"Sir? What --" 

"That touch -- *my* grip on the back of your neck -- is always going to be... affecting for you, son. Now that the All-Mother has made it so that you've *finished* the process of coming into your power. I... wasn't thinking." 

Porthos blinks -- "Sir, it was helping *me* think --" 

"Was it, son?" 

"*Yes* --" 

"Or was it helping you... think yourself down onto your knees," Treville says, and raises that *teaching* eyebrow, which. 

Porthos's cock *flexes* for a lot of different fantasies at once -- 

Treville flares his *nostrils*, eyes widening -- 

And Porthos raises his *own* eyebrows. 

Treville growls -- stops. "Son, we both know I want you *badly*, but --" 

"Desperately. Right, sir? Maybe a little madly?" 

Treville pants once -- 

Twice -- 

And *yanks* *both* hands away from Porthos before snarling -- "I *need* you!" 

Porthos nods, and *deals* with his cock *jerking* and *spattering* the inside of his breeches -- 

"Oh, son -- *son* --" 

"Help me think, sir. Help me *think* --" 

"I --" 

"And tell me more about how *you* justify doing this with Mum's ghost in your mind." 

Treville *whuffs* out a breath -- 

*Stares* at him for a moment -- 

And then nods slowly. "My boy. Of course... of course *that* would be..." Treville breathes again, and stops *growling*, and moves his hands *back* to Porthos's neck and shoulder. 

"Thank you -- thank you, sir --" 

"Shh. I always want to touch you. I always *ache* to touch you..."

"I --" 

"Shh. Quiet down now, son. I have to... tell you everything now." 

Porthos licks his lips and just -- "Yes, sir," he says, and nods. 

"Good boy, my *good* boy..." And Treville gives himself a shake. "Even before we were bound, son..." And Treville sighs. "I would do everything I could to be close to your mother. And when she fell pregnant with you, I was all but on top of her every chance I could get -- but especially when you were kicking." 

"Shit --" 

"Here," Treville says, and squeezes *firmly* -- 

"Yes -- oh, fuck, yes --" 

_And then he's looking at Mum, at his *Mum*, and she's right there -- _

_So *close* -- _

_Giggling and happy and *obviously* healthy, even though it's dark in the room -- _

_He's so close to her -- _

_He's -- _

_She's *smacking* him -- _

_(Me, son...) _

_And Porthos realizes that Treville has pulled him into one of his *own* memories, pulled him just -- _

_Right into the *past* -- _

_Where he's *tickling* her -- _

_They're cuddled together on a *tiny* bed -- _

_And Mum just *honked* and *slapped* Treville at the same time. _

_"Was that a no, Amina-love?"_

_"*No*, you great nancy! The tickling makes the babe *calm*." _

_"Hm. I *like* the kicking --" _

_"You also like the slapping, so keep *tickling*!" _

_"Right you are," Treville says, and does just that. _

_"Oh -- hoo --" _

_"What was that, Amina-love?" _

_"You -- you -- ohh..." _

_"I couldn't quite... catch..." _

_She *guffaws*, just like Porthos *remembers*, loud and *strong* -- and smacks him *hard* -- _

_Treville grins like a boy --_

_And she kisses him deep, hard, sweet -- _

_She kisses him *exactly* like she loves him, needs him -- _

_Needs her *mate* -- _

_Needs everything --_

_Needs the blood in his mouth and needs his lengthening teeth and needs his hard *cock* -- _

_"Yes, sweet brother, *yesss*," she says, and she's lapping at him now, slurring -- _

_Her tongue is shifted -- _

_She's pulling him even *closer* to her -- _

_And Porthos can feel the babe kick -- feel *himself* kick, feel -- _

_Shit -- _

Treville tugs him away from the memory, gentle and slow and easy -- 

They're both panting -- and Porthos knows they're both *harder* -- 

*Shit* -- 

"Shh, son, shh. It's natural. You couldn't escape my feelings, my needs, my *aches* --"

"I -- I --" 

"Shh. You *needed* your mother. Didn't you. *More* of your mother than you were given." 

Porthos blinks -- 

And looks at Treville. At his pale blue eyes -- so gentle and *knowing*. At all the lines of care and warmth and kindness and *love* -- 

Love for Porthos's Mum, and the rest of their pack, back then. 

Love for him.

Love for him, and Jason, and Athos, and Aramis, and Thomas, too -- 

Love for -- fuck, bloody everyone who has *meant* something to him, and Treville's heart is so *big* -- 

So warm and deep and *big* -- 

And it's always been all over his face, if you knew how to look. 

Treville smiles wryly. "The witches who augmented me and your mother told me that dogs weren't meant to keep secrets..." 

"They're bloody *not*, sir --" 

"Shh. Tell me how you are." 

Porthos's heart knocks as he feels himself about to force the Captain to care for him even *more* -- 

"*Or*... you could think of it as giving your *father* the opportunity to do something with his *son* that he was denied the *opportunity* to do for --" 

"*Shit* -- uh. Right, right," Porthos says, and blushes. 

Treville yips -- relatively -- quiet laughter and massages his shoulder. He keeps his grip steady on the back of Porthos's neck. 

"I -- thank you, sir..." 

"Always, son. Always. *Tell me how you are*." 

"I'm -- I'm a bit. I think..." He frowns... 

"Go on, son. At your own pace." 

Porthos nods. "I'm. I don't know what to do with... all these feelings. The ones for you, the ones for Mum, the ones for -- for all of our *pack*..." Porthos gives *himself* a shake and breathes. 

'That's good, son, that's perfect. Keep going..." 

"Right, I -- Aramis makes sense. Aramis makes *perfect* sense, to just -- all of me. I wanted him all over me before I even *saw* him, sir!" 

"His scents caught you, yes?" 

"*Yes*, sir. Before I even knew who -- or *what* -- I *was* smelling. And -- that makes sense to *you*, right?" 

Treville hums and smiles and nods. "He's your mate. You were, quite literally, made for each other. Even if Aramis hadn't been a faun, and hadn't been *able* to send his scents to you... well. He would've had you, son. And *you* would've had him." 

"I... you said you and Mum were weak mages when you met..." 

"That's right. Our senses were a bit stronger than those of most humans, and we were more *sensitive* than most, but... we couldn't *reach* for each other. Not like that." 

"But you still... felt each other. *Had* each other?" 

Treville inclines his head. "That we did, son. As much as we could, for as long as we *had*." 

And that... Porthos shivers. "I want it, sir. I want -- your memories." 

"You'll have them --" 

"No, I mean -- I want. I want all of them," Porthos says, and blushes. "I want --" Porthos laughs a little helplessly. "I think you *know*..." 

Treville smiles ruefully and massages his shoulder again -- 

*Grips* the back of Porthos's neck -- 

"Oh, sir -- I'm listening --" 

"That's right, you are, son. Now listen to this: You're not just my son -- as if there could ever be such a thing as 'just' a son -- we're *bound*. You need *everything* from me, and I need everything from you. Now. What do you *think* that means about your mother?" 

Porthos blinks -- 

*Remembers* Yejide's lessons about blood-magic back in the Court of Miracles, about everything the blood-bound could and *would* have with each other, sooner or later, because they *needed* -- 

And Treville grunts. "That was her. That -- was one of the people who took care of you after your mother died." 

"I -- yes, sir -- " 

"And I can see..." He lifts his nose and frowns. "She's a death-mage. She's *the* death-mage who sent you out on *missions* for her before you had even come into your *power* --" Treville growls -- 

"Uh, sir... don't -- don't get angry --" 

"*Son* --" 

"I needed her *protection*, sir --" 

"Yes, you *did* --" 

"I needed her protection for me and *mine*, sir," Porthos says, as firmly as he can with that big, wonderful hand on the back of his neck. "And I knew how to buy it." 

Treville narrows his eyes -- and then just winces and moves his hand from Porthos's shoulder to his face -- no. The old, old scar over his eye. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "It's not from that, sir. Not from, you know, messing about with the undead." 

"No?" 

"No, sir. There was a fight. A couple of real arseholes were terrorizing women and kids in my neighbourhood. I did for them, but it got messy --" 

"Oh -- my good boy..." Treville rumbles. "Your Yejide cared for you?" 

"I -- when I let her?" Porthos laughs ruefully. "The neighbourhood threw a kind of... impromptu party after I won the fight. It went on for a while. Not too many things to celebrate in the Court, you know? I didn't want to *leave* the party just to go get patched up more than I could patch *myself* up." 

Treville looks at him. Hard.

Porthos blushes and coughs. "Uh... yes, sir. I've learned that lesson, I promise." 

"Have you." 

"*Yes*, sir. I couldn't bloody *see* out of this eye for a while -- anyway, uh, I learned." 

Treville snorts. "I'm acting like I wouldn't have done the same bloody thing at your age." 

"Well, you're my father, and all, so you kind of have to. I forgive you for it," Porthos says, nodding and frowning judiciously. 

Treville caresses Porthos's face and smiles like his heart is hurting him -- 

Like he's *aching* -- 

"In good ways, son. I --" 

"Are you sure about that, sir?" And Porthos flares his nostrils, seeks a little -- 

"I..." Treville nods and steps a little closer, obliterates the space between them --

Porthos rumbles -- 

"My boy. My good, good --" Treville growls. "How much of parenting have you *had*, son? How much of it do you *know*?" 

"My *Mum*, sir --" 

"Until you were five. Until -- until Guillou murdered her." 

"I --" 

"After that. I can *feel* that Yejide was a cold one, that she trained you far more than she raised you, that her *colleagues* were the *same*," Treville says, and this is the pain Porthos was smelling, the *real* hurt -- 

"Sir..." 

"Oh, son, you've grown up so strong, so beautiful, so warm and kind and good and *perfect*." 

"I --" 

"I only wonder... who's cared for you. Who's given you softness? *Sweetness*." 

"My *friends*, sir. My -- my *family*. The other kids I grew up with, and -- I was saying --" 

"You told me," Treville says, and he looks and smells even more hurt. "They're the family you had when you were growing up. You took care of each other, and you kept each other warm and safe..." 

"That. That's right, sir --" 

Treville inhales sharply and nods. "Do you have any of them anymore, son?" 

And that... well, that's a wrench, deep inside. "Two -- two are still alive, sir..." 

"But you don't truly have them, I see." 

Porthos winces. "No, sir. I -- it was a big fight, when I wanted to leave to become a Musketeer. They -- they thought I was getting above myself. You know." 

Treville winces and nods and *yanks* Porthos into a hug, warm and hard and tight and so -- 

Porthos shivers and takes it -- 

Takes it and hugs Treville back because he *needs* to, because he needs to do it just as hard -- 

He *needs* to feel Treville just like this -- 

So *close* -- 

He smells so *good*, even with his scents all hurt and hurt for *him* -- and Treville tugs Porthos's head *down*, pulls him in until his nose is tucked right in against Treville's throat -- 

"Oh, sir --" 

"Breathe, son." 

He does just that, because it's good, because it makes him *relax*, open up, nuzzle in, *rumble* -- 

"That's it..." 

Feel so close to his -- 

So right with his -- 

Porthos shivers -- 

"Shh," Treville says, and starts petting him. 

"Oh." 

"Think about that, for a little while." 

"Yes, sir..." 

"Good boy," Treville says, and rocks them back and forth on their feet, right there in all the trees. 

It feels good. 

It feels -- bloody wonderful. 

It would probably feel even better if they were naked, or... shifted... 

Treville licks his cheek -- 

"Nnh!" 

"Don't think about shifting just yet, son." 

"Uhh." 

"Mm?" 

"Should I think about being naked with you, instead?" 

Treville takes a breath -- "You should think about whatever will improve you being cuddled and petted, because that's what you're going to *get*, son." 

"Shifting *really* feels like it will improve a lot of --" 

"Shh. We're not going to train you for that until we're in a more controlled environment, son. Your dog is going to want to run, and play, and hunt, and *fuck* -- all at once, I'd wager, since he's been shut up for so long." 

Porthos blinks -- and nods. "That makes sense, sir. Thank you." 

"You're welcome, son. I'll be taking your lead off as soon as it's *safe* to do so -- *believe* me. It's wrong to keep a lead on a dog for so long. But... just a little longer." 

"Yes, sir," Porthos says, and licks Treville's throat, which is salty with old sweat and new -- 

Delicious with his good, old leather -- 

So close -- 

So *close*, and Porthos licks more, *more* -- 

Treville shivers and pets him *firmly*. "Son..." 

"Mm?" And Porthos goes back to -- 

To... oh. Oh, *shit* -- 

He can't -- 

"Shh, stop right there, son," Treville says, licking Porthos's *ear* once and holding him even tighter, petting him even more *firmly* --" 

"Sir -- I -- I --" 

"Shh --" 

"I didn't mean to -- it's just --" 

"I smell good, I feel good, I *taste* good, and I *smell even better than that*?" 

Porthos blinks -- 

Licks his *delicious*-tasting lips -- 

Shivers and -- and just nods. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I get it." 

Treville nods once. "Good. I'll set your lead a little tighter, for the time being, when we have to be close to each other around people who can't know the truth --" 

"What..." 

"Mm?" 

"What about *your* lead, sir?" 

Treville pulls back just far enough that they can meet each other's eyes and smiles wryly. "I've learned a lot about control in the years since I was first augmented, son... but that doesn't mean I'm not *painfully* pinning my cock back as we speak." 

That... Porthos frowns. 

"Son?" 

"No, I -- I *believe* you --" 

"I'll *never* lie to you, son --" 

"Yes, sir, but." And Porthos blushes and smiles ruefully. "I think. I think I'd feel better if you showed me... uh -- fuck, no, I'm sorry, I'm --" 

"Shh. My boy needs... needs to know he's not alone," Treville says, and *growls*, low and hard -- 

"Sir --" 

"Is that right, son? You need to know you're not the only one having a hard time holding on to his control?" 

"I..." And just like that, Porthos can't think of a bloody thing to say, because Treville's scents are rising, hot and musky and *wild* -- 

Treville's *eyes* are more wild, more -- 

"Oh, sir..." 

"I'm hungry for you, son. I'm hungry for... oh, for every little thing about you," he says, and moves his hands back to Porthos's shoulder and the back of his *neck*.

"Fuck -- *please* --" 

"But we haven't discussed everything. We never got to... how I square things with your mother's ghost, now did we," he says, and licks his lips. "My *mate's* ghost." 

"Oh -- *oh* -- please *tell* me, sir!" 

"Shh. This," Treville says -- 

_"Jean-*Armand*!" And Mum sounds hacked-off beyond *belief* as she *storms* into a rich bedroom *exactly* like she's been there enough to feel comfortable in it -- _

_Smells that way, too -- _

_Smells *incredible* -- _

_Young and strong and wild and beautiful and *healthy*, so *healthy* -- _

_She's *hugely* pregnant -- her bright, colourful wrap-dress is *straining* -- but she's still so -- so *alive* -- _

_Treville is sitting at the foot of a *big* bed in a shirt and trousers, no shoes -- _

_Treville is *slumped* at the foot of the bed with his *face* in his hands -- _

_And Mum is slapping the back of his *head*. "Get *up*!" _

_"Amina-love --" _

_"Get up *now*!" _

_"Amina, just -- just give me a little --" _

_"*No*," she says, and *hauls* him up, just like that, just like he isn't *bigger* than she is -- _

_But he stands, and nods, and smiles ruefully at her. "Right you are, Amina-love, I'm up. I -- I'm sorry I've been such an arse tonight. I'm just a little --" _

_"You have been *melancholy* and *frightened* since Ife's prophecy about Marie-Angelique's and Laurent's babe --" _

_Treville winces -- _

_She *smacks* him again -- _

_He steps *back* --_

_"Jean-*Armand*."_

_*That* makes him growl at her -- _

_And Mum nods. "You will talk to me right *now* or we will have a problem, my husband."_

_For a moment, Treville only looks hurt -- _

_*Helpless* and hurt -- _

_"*Husband*." _

_And then Treville stands straight, takes a breath, and nods, holding up a hand to begin ticking off points. "The babe, when he's older, will be a brilliant, beautiful, strong, brave *leader of men*." _

_"*Yes*, my husband, and we must go to our pack and *tell* -- them," Mum says, and stops, and blinks. _

_And blinks at Treville. _

_And *stares* at Treville. _

_Treville's bark of a laugh is humourless and brief, and he turns away -- _

_Mum draws herself up -- "Do *not* turn away from me --" _

_"*Amina* --" _

_"You will not take your *eyes* from me!" _

_Treville snarls and turns back. "*Amina*. I'm going to *desire* my *godson*! I -- I -- I don't *know* the magic that makes a man parent a child and then somehow *not* desire them. I don't know anything *about* that magic! It was never *in* me!" _

_"And you did not think of this before," she says, and nods. "Yes, I see." _

_"*Yes* --" _

_"My husband," she says, and steps close, cupping his face with her hard hands. "I *did*." _

_He blinks. "You -- you did what?" _

_"*Fool* of a dog. *Fearless*. Always leaping before you *look*, mm?" _

_"I --" _

_"And our Laurent is *just* the same, in some ways. *Only* some, though. *He* thought of this, too, I believe," she says, and nods again. "Yes, Marie-Angelique would not have had it *any* other way." _

_"I -- I -- what are you *saying*?" _

_She looks at him *hard*. "You will desire your godson, sweet brother. You will grow hard for him, and *ache* for him, and toss yourself *off* to him -- and we *all* know you will, even though the conversation has not *yet* been had aloud. We will fix that." _

_Treville grunts and looks *sick* with himself -- _

_And Mum's expression softens with wry humour as she caresses his face. "Sweet brother, you are forgetting... two things. Two very important things." _

_Treville shudders hard and long -- "Amina-love... I. I will always, always listen to you," he says, and smiles ruefully again. _

_She nods again. "First thing: You will not be alone in your deviance, my husband. Pack is pack, and we have proven, I think, that *none* of us need *ever* be alone. Yes?" _

_Treville blinks -- and flushes *hard* -- _

_"Second: *None* of us have ever been *rapists*. No matter what happens in our minds and hearts and bodies and souls *when* our children grow up as perfectly as they *will*? They will be *allowed* to grow, and live, and laugh, and become, and *love* as they will. Without anything from *us*... but whatever they come to *desire*," she says, and raises an eyebrow._

_Treville grunts and *pants* -- _

_Stares down at her *belly* -- _

_*Grips* her belly -- _

_"Do not make him kick!" _

_"I -- I -- you've thought about this!" _

_"*Yes*, my husband --" _

_"You've thought about it for *our* --" And Treville whines -- _

_Whines high and *desperate* -- _

_Drops to his *knees* --_

_"*Husband* --" _

_He presses his *face* to her belly and weeps, quietly wracking sobs that sound like they come from a place inside him that nothing has ever touched. _

_That nothing *could* ever touch. _

_She strokes his hair -- _

_"I -- I'll do *better*!" _

_"My husband... we will all do -- and *be* -- the best we *can*."_

Treville pulls him out of the memory slowly and gently -- 

They're both *panting* -- 

Porthos can still smell all of his Mum's good scents -- 

He can still smell Treville's *tears* -- 

His -- 

His *father's* tears, because fuck if it isn't time to stop chasing his mind away from that thought -- 

"Son --" 

"Are you about to *argue* with me, sir?" 

Treville growls, short and sharp -- "Never!" 

"Then -- then be my father. Be -- be my father *exactly* the way Mum wanted you to be --" 

"Son, we have to *talk* about that memory --" 

"Absolutely, let's talk," Porthos says, and laughs breathlessly -- 

Gulps air and tastes Treville's -- his father's, his *father's* -- hunger -- 

Lust -- 

*Ache* -- 

"Son --" 

"Do you taste me, sir?" 

"Of *course* --" 

"What *do* you want me to call you? Mm?" And Porthos studies his father's wide, wild eyes -- 

So pale and -- 

"I wanted to say -- I've always loved blue eyes," Porthos says, and growls a little. "I've always loved *your* eyes, and how *hard* they can get --" 

"*Wait*," Treville says, and his eyes are hard and *hot* -- 

So -- 

He's gripping Porthos's neck *tight* -- 

He's gripping Porthos even tighter *inside*. "I'm listening, sir. I'm listening to *everything* you say." 

"I need you to talk to me, son. I need you to tell me *why* that memory has made you so *relieved*." 

"Was it not *supposed* to? I listened to *everything* Mum said when she was alive. It was *death* not to, most of the time." 

Treville blinks rapidly and *idiotically* -- but. 

Porthos gets it. "You just meant to *explain*. You just -- and give me my Mum? You wanted me to know why *you* were resolved in *your* mind, and give me time and room to step *back* a little." 

"*Close*, son," Treville says, and laughs ruefully. "I'll never be *wholly* resolved about *anything* that *might* hurt my children, but I'll always know that my Amina-love trusted *me* not to hurt our children, just as I trusted her. With. With all of myself," he says, and smiles with pain. 

But that... "Um..." 

"Yes, son?" 

"Daddy?" 

Treville growls and moves his hand from Porthos's shoulder to his face -- 

Presses his thumb to the corner of Porthos's mouth -- 

"Do you like that, son. Calling me Daddy?" 

Porthos grins. "I like the way you *respond* to it, Daddy --" 

"Shh. We're both in this relationship, son. And I need you *not* to call me that... if you don't feel that way," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows pointedly. 

Teaching again, in a *personal* way, and -- 

And Porthos had always wanted that for hours at a time, wanted it for *himself*, wanted to be the Captain's *pet* -- 

But not more than he'd wanted to be the Captain's son. It's just -- 

He hadn't truly known what that meant. He hadn't truly -- 

Treville croons low and nods. "My boy... you never had anyone to teach you about this. You never had anyone to *give* you -- oh, son, oh, son, I'll give you everything you *let* me give you!" 

Porthos shivers. "I -- I know that. I've always known I could *trust* you, sir -- *Daddy* --" 

"Shh, call me what you're most *comfortable* --" 

"I *am* comfortable calling you Daddy! I just -- I have to teach myself that, too. Some lessons -- take a little time. A little effort," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully, lips dragging against -- Daddy's thumb. 

Daddy pants -- 

Narrows his eyes -- 

Growls -- "You want to take that time." 

"Yes, Daddy." 

"You want..." He licks his lips. 

Porthos licks his own -- and Daddy's thumb, too. "I want everything from you, Daddy. You know *exactly* how much I *need* it." 

"Oh, son, I --" 

And then *all* of Porthos's *soul* is filled with Aramis's scents, Aramis's *lust*, Aramis's pleasure and pleasure in *him* -- 

Porthos is grunting and *bucking* -- 

(My Porthos...) 

Aramis -- precious, I -- do you need -- tell me what I can *give* you -- 

Aramis's scents -- his pleasure and *power* -- spike and *blaze* within Porthos -- 

Porthos rumbles and *reaches* for Aramis -- 

Grips his spirit tight because he *has* to -- 

(Oh, my Porthos, *yes*,) Aramis says, and he sounds thrilled, happy, wondering, *joyous* -- 

Precious, precious, you have to *tell* me what you need -- 

(You have *given* it to me, my Porthos,) Aramis says, and the pleasure within him turns coiling, hot, *possessive*. (You have given it to me as our Jason -- and the All-Mother! -- said that you always *would*.) 

Porthos blinks -- 

Thinks of the *timing* of Aramis's call -- 

Licks his lips... You were... yanking my lead a bit? 

(No more than a tug, beautiful Porthos. I *thought* I would have to use *much* force to pull you away from Daddy, but --) 

Precious, do you need me to *not* make love with -- 

(Porthos!) 

Or maybe only when we're all together --

(I... but. You are a good and careful and kind and loving man. This, I already knew.) 

That's *right*, you did, Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's spirit in the blackness of their soul-space, strokes his warmth and *holds* -- 

(Oh, my *Porthos*...) Aramis squeezes him *tight* -- 

*Yes*, precious. Now, tell me -- or. Do you need time to -- 

(I do *not* need time to think. I need my Porthos to make love with our Daddy --) 

But -- 

(-- even though I am not there --) 

This is what -- 

(-- as *I* will make love with our Daddy, from time to time, when my *Porthos* is not there --) 

I -- oh -- 

(-- and this, of course, does not take into account our Athos -- who was my brother long before I knew my Porthos existed!) 

Right, right, of course --

(-- or our Jason.) 

Um. You know Daddy wants him to be our other Daddy, right? Or... maybe not Daddy, but -- something? 

(We will find the best word,) Aramis says, serene and assured. 

It fills Porthos with calm just as much as Daddy's hand on the back of his neck. Everything is right with the world when Aramis is happy. 

Everything is *correct* -- but. Is Aramis frowning?

Thinking hard about something? Porthos strokes his spirit a little more firmly. Precious love?

(Oh -- my Porthos. It's only that I was thinking that everything is correct when *you* are happy.) 

That troubled you? 

(No, I -- *you* have been troubled, while you have been talking to Daddy, our good Daddy...) 

Well, uh. It's been... uh. There's been some serious things -- 

(Oh, we have all been listening -- and watching! -- all of it.) 

Uhh... 

(But it occurs to me, my beautiful Porthos, that I should have stepped in earlier, and eased you, and helped you to understand that there was nothing wrong in desiring our good Daddy --) 

Um. 

(Yes? Yes?) And then Aramis fills Porthos's entire *awareness* with his scents. 

His *incredible* -- 

His -- 

It is, maybe, not Porthos's job to think right now. But -- 

(My Porthos --) 

Precious love, Porthos says, as firmly as he can with his cock leaking what feels like enough slick to lubricate an *entire* brothel -- Precious, I needed to know that I wouldn't hurt my *Mum*. My -- my good Mum. 

(Ohh. Yes, I see this thing. Next time, we will make our Daddy speak *quickly* and *clearly* and *concisely*.) 

If anyone can do that, it's you, love. 

Aramis rumbles low. (Good mate. Good mate.) 

*Yours* -- 

And Aramis gives him a little push, easing his perfect scents *away*. It's confusing as hell -- for the moments it takes Porthos to realize that he can feel Daddy again. 

Feel him, smell him -- 

Smell his *musk* -- 

Hear his soft laughter -- 

Hear the *growls* under the laughter and know they're as much for *Aramis* as they are for him -- 

That's so bloody *perfect* -- 

And Daddy laughs again -- 

Pauses visibly -- just. All *over* -- 

Is Aramis speaking *just* to Daddy? Somehow keeping it from -- 

"Is *that* what you want me to do with our Porthos, you perfect boy?" 

\-- him. Oh, fuck. Oh -- fuck...

"Oh, you have other ideas, *too*," Daddy says, and grins broad and *dirty*. "Well. I think we can work with that..." 

"I -- uh -- uh --" 

(But I must *share* and share *alike*,) Aramis says, and strokes Porthos inside. (Yes, I see this thing.) 

Porthos moans helplessly, eyes wide and body *hungry* -- 

And Daddy smiles at him with one eyebrow up. He's got one hand on the back of Porthos's neck and the other stroking down Porthos's chest from his shoulder -- 

Down so *slowly* -- 

His fingers catch on the catches of Porthos's *tunic* -- 

And Porthos hears himself *croon*, needy and helpless. 

Daddy nods and licks his lips. "That's just fine, son. We'll take care of you. Won't we, Aramis." 

(Oh, *yes*, my Daddy!) 

"Let's get these clothes *off*."


	8. Aramis would probably object to the wild spaniels, too. I'm just saying.

This is not, in fact, the first time Treville has imagined stripping Porthos down in the middle of the woods as a prelude to abject deviance -- 

(I am calling my good mate's attention to this right now!) 

Thank you *very* much for that, son, Treville says, and tosses Porthos's tunic out of the way -- 

*Thickens* for the sounds of Porthos's *croons*, hungry *croons* -- 

Does *not* tear his *shirt* -- 

No, focus: "I should say, sons," Treville says, and rubs at Porthos's hard, dark nipples with his *hardest* calluses -- 

"*Fuck*, Daddy --" 

(Yes? Yes?) 

"Do you like this, son? Mm?" 

"Please, I -- fuck --" And Porthos's eyes are wide, young... just a little stunned.

Which is more than a little surprising, considering. "Just for this, son...?" And Treville gives those nipples a twist -- 

Porthos grunts and flushes *deeply* -- 

(Ohh...) 

Treville rumbles. "Tell me, son. Tell me what you're thinking." 

"I just -- I never. Uh." 

"'Never'...?" 

Porthos shivers like a horse. "None of my fantasies about you... uh. You didn't really... take your time..."

That -- Treville growls, and doesn't do a damned thing to keep the hunger out of it, the greed, the -- 

And Porthos is blinking -- 

Flushing even more deeply -- 

Licking his lips and *moaning* -- 

It. Aramis? 

(My Daddy, I am sharing with our Porthos your many dreams of tasting his beautiful arse!)

Well, then. 

Treville drops to a crouch and gets Porthos out of his boots and socks -- 

Indulges himself in a slow, *brutal* nuzzle of that magnificent cock *through* Porthos's trousers -- 

Porthos *bucks* -- "Fuck -- *sorry* --" 

Treville *nips* him through his trousers -- 

"Nnh --" 

"Never apologize for needing me, son." 

"I --" 

Treville looks up and shows his beautiful son -- all of himself. "Never apologize for *giving* yourself to me."

Porthos *whines* for him, fingers spasming in the middle of a -- reach?

Treville cocks his head to the side. "Did you want to touch me, son...? You always can..." 

"Oh -- sir. Fuck -- I don't want to *stop* you!" And Porthos laughs hungrily, breathlessly, *beautifully* -- 

Treville grins. "Right you are, son. Here," he says, and gets those trousers and breeches open -- 

Down -- 

Porthos steps *out* -- 

(It is very cruel that you have denied me the opportunity to choke myself on my Porthos's cock, my Daddy.) 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I'm a very cruel man, son. Why, just for your impertinence?" 

(Oh, yes...?) 

Treville hefts and squeezes Porthos's bollocks. 

"Please --" 

"You're going to have to give *these* a suckle before I even *think* about allowing you to choke on that beautiful cock." 

"Fuck fuck --" 

(Daddy! They are so big and furry! How will I ever fit them in my mouth?) 

Treville *coughs* -- no, recover, recover -- "You should've thought of that before you decided to get mouthy, son," he says, and starts *working* those bollocks -- 

Porthos croons more, unsteady on those big, lovely feet -- 

(Oh, please, my Daddy, you must not be so harsh with your tender little boy!) 

Treville does not wheeze -- much -- "It's my responsibility to teach you all *discipline*, and that's what you're going to *get*." 

"Oh fuck."

Treville checks -- 

Yes, Porthos is looking a bit glassy-eyed up there. Hm. 

"I'm obviously going to have to show you boys *how* to be properly disciplined about things..." 

(Oh, yes, Daddy, yes! We have learned so little!) 

Treville chokes off a *helpless* snicker as best as he can -- 

Leans in to suck a *hard* kiss to Porthos's furry sac -- 

"UNH!" 

"Down on your *back*, son!" 

"*Yes*, sir! Anything you *say*, sir!" And Porthos hops to, just like that, and -- mm. 

The part of Treville who will always be *Laurent's* fourteen-year-old recruit is more than a little confused to find himself in *this* position -- 

But that's true for more reasons than he's capable of counting at the moment. For now -- 

For now he can look at his son, his beautiful son, laid out before him on all the dead leaves like a feast for the *worthy* -- 

Sweating and hard and hungry -- 

Hopeful and needy and -- 

Fuck, so *beautiful*, and a *part* of Treville wants nothing more than the ability to build one of Jason's pockets around the two of them, around this *moment*, static and eternal and unchanging -- 

But that would be a crime against every other part of his soul -- including the parts which belong, wholly, to Jason and the rest of his pack. And so he only strokes and pets his perfect son, gives him every part of his *hands* -- 

Gives him every *callus*, because he *is* that fourteen-year-old, still, and he knows that a young man in *Porthos's* position just may find himself wanting very few things *more* than he wants his superior officer's hard-worked hands.

All over. 

All over. 

He strokes, he cups, he caresses -- 

He squeezes and lifts -- 

He holds Porthos's gaze -- his *attention* -- as he pushes Porthos's knee back to his chest -- 

"Please, Daddy -- *please*!" 

And then he gives that beautiful arse a hard smack. 

Porthos grunts, eyes widening beautifully -- 

And *then* Treville raises an eyebrow. 

If anything, Porthos's flush gets even deeper, more *fiery* -- 

(My Daddy, we are *all* imagining our Porthos over your good lap...) 

"Are we, now..." 

Porthos inhales sharply, cock jerking -- 

Jerking again and *again* -- 

Treville rumbles. "Ask for it, son." 

"*Fuck* –" 

"Unless..." And Treville lifts his nose, tastes the scrambled scents of lust, need, embarrassment, wonder, incredulity, disbelief, hope, love -- 

"Uhh... unless?" 

Treville pants. "Unless you don't *want* to, son. That's all. That's..." He shakes his head. "Nothing we do, nothing I say, no game we *play*... is ever mandatory. The fact that I've been dreaming about my subordinate in countless compromising positions since we *met* --" 

"Doesn't mean you've been dreaming about *me*, Daddy?" 

Treville growls. "Not that. Not that. I was absolutely dreaming about you, son -- just like you were dreaming about *me* -- for all that we were missing some extremely salient facts about each other." 

Porthos frowns. "Then... what?" 

(Our Daddy wishes us -- all of us -- to know that our pleasure is *all*, my Porthos. That our pleasure is *his* pleasure -- and that our *displeasure* and *unhappiness* will make him wilt like a weak and elderly *priest*.) 

Porthos *blinks* -- 

"Hmm. I don't suppose I can keep you with me every time there's a difficult conversation to be had, Aramis...?" 

Aramis gestures grandly within their soul-space. (I will teach my Daddy the ways of such things.) 

"With time?" 

(With much time, yes.) 

Treville grins, and turns back to Porthos, who is *also* grinning. 

Beautifully, as ever. 

"Oh, son. I could watch you smile... mm. What say you, mm? What would you *like* to have happen this afternoon?" 

"I..." Porthos laughs hard. "Fuck, of *course* I've tossed myself off to dreams of you just -- having my *hide* --" 

"Me, son? Or someone... just a little harder than that," Treville says, narrowing his eyes and showing his teeth. 

"Right, well, there's another fantasy right there -- but no, no, you're *cheerful* in *most* of my fantasies, Daddy." 

Treville grins. "*Am* I..." 

(Our Porthos is wise. Good mate. Good mate.) 

"Agreed, on all counts. But tell me more...?" And Treville *pats* Porthos's arsecheek. 

"See -- that, right there, but also -- you always *showed* me your cheerful side, Daddy. You were always... I don't know. You're a hard man, yeah, and the entire regiment is sodding terrified of you getting a bloody *toothache* --" 

Treville coughs -- "Go on, go on..." 

"But -- uh. I could always see. You always seemed to *want* to be smiling, or laughing, or -- laughing like an *arsehole*. And -- the lines on your face were all about good things, smiles and love and -- you can always tell, you know?" 

"Oh, son..." 

"You said it *yourself*, Daddy. Dogs aren't meant to *hide* -- and you *weren't* hiding. Not really. Not for people who knew how to look." 

(And, perhaps, not for people like my Porthos, who our Daddy has loved long and well.) 

This time, it's definitely more of a blush than a flush. 

(Sometimes, my Daddy, our Porthos has dreamed of nothing more than your voice in his ear as you stroked his hard cock...) 

Treville rumbles and smiles -- 

Porthos *stiffens* -- 

"Shh, shh. We can have... anything. *Everything*. It's what I want." 

"Shit --" 

"It's the barest *fraction* of what I want --" 

"That -- you're saying things like *that* -- uh. When you're whispering and growling in my ear. Daddy." 

Treville licks his lips, heating up -- all over. "I'm telling you the truth." 

"Fuck -- I --" 

"I'm telling my boy the *truth* -- about what I *need*." 

Porthos shivers *hard* -- and stares up at him. "What. What we both need." 

Treville growls and lies down beside his boy, his beautiful -- 

He cups that lovely cock with one hand -- 

Kisses that round little ear -- 

"Please --" 

So much like his Amina-love's -- 

"Fuck, *please* --"

He pushes his other arm beneath Porthos's head and he strokes and laps and strokes and kisses and -- 

"*Please* --" 

"When we're back to the regiment, and I'm alone in my tent, I'm going to shove my hands in my mouth and bite them, lick them, *suck* them -- oh, son. You don't know how long I've wanted you all *over* me." 

"I -- *please* --" 

"But I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything. I'll *give* you everything -- mm. Starting with this," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's growing knot *firmly* -- 

Porthos barks and arches -- 

"Oh... good boy. Your cock is going to be even more beautiful than it is now, son. Even... bigger." 

Porthos grunts -- 

Blinks and stares at *nothing* -- 

(Oh, no, my Daddy! He is staring at *many* beautiful memories of *your* cock, both glamoured and not!) 

Treville laughs. "Is he, now. All *right*, then," he says, and nips that musky little space behind Porthos's ear -- 

"Unh --" 

"Your cock's going to look a lot like mine, son," Treville says, and squeezes -- 

"Oh --" 

And squeezes --

"Please -- *fuck* --"

And squeezes *hard* -- 

"*Daddy*!" 

Treville *growls* into Porthos's ear and starts giving him a rough, hard *twisting* stroke -- 

*Slow* and hard and -- 

(Oh, my Porthos, do you like it? It is just as our Daddy *promised*...) 

Porthos whuffs and whuffs -- *howls* -- 

Aramis gasps and purrs and *fills* their soul-space with *avidity* -- 

"My sentiments precisely, sons," Treville says, and bites Porthos's strong throat just a little *viciously* -- 

Porthos chokes on his howl even as his cock *spits* slick -- 

"*Good* boy --" 

"F-*fuck* --" 

"And you *are* a good boy, son," Treville says, and rumbles into his ear. "You're *my* good boy. Aren't you." 

"Daddy --" 

"You've always *wanted* to be your Daddy's good boy..." 

"I --" 

"You've *needed* to be your Daddy's good boy."

"*Please* -- you -- I --" 

Treville growls and licks a hot, wet stripe along Porthos's cheek -- "Haven't you, son." 

Porthos shakes like a *leaf* --

"You've needed it... more than anything *else*," Treville says, and strokes a little harder, a little *faster*. 

"Ungh -- *shit* --" 

"You'd do *anything* for it. Wouldn't you. Wouldn't you, son." 

"Fuck fuck -- please don't --" 

Treville flushes and pulls *back*, heart seizing -- 

"No! I -- I mean -- I mean don't *stop*. Please don't *stop*, Daddy!" 

(Yes, Daddy, do not stop! You can feel all that you need to!) 

I -- 

But Treville can't even think up a sentence *fragment* before Aramis is filling him with Porthos's desire, hunger, *need* -- 

And all of Aramis's own *lusts* for just *this*. It -- 

Treville is growling and kneeling *up* -- 

Shoving Porthos's thighs wide *with* his own knees -- no. He hauls Porthos up until his thighs are sprawled over Treville's own -- 

Until Porthos is spread over his *lap* -- 

"Have you dreamed *this*, son?" 

"I -- *fuck* -- not this exactly --" 

"This position...?"

"If I'm on your lap in my dreams -- you're either fucking me or giving me a *hiding*, Daddy!" 

Treville flares his nostrils and -- considers. 

(Consider aloud!) 

Treville coughs a laugh. "Right you are. Porthos... can you wait a little longer to spend...? Would you *like* to." 

"Uhh. I'm a little conflicted on that issue, Daddy." 

Treville snickers and gestures a come-on. "Let me make it worth your while." 

"*While* I'm basically -- sitting on your lap? That *is* what you want me to do, yeah?" 

Treville nods extra judiciously. 

"Right you are, Daddy," Porthos says, sitting up strong and shifting about until he's up on his knees over Treville's lap -- "Let's do this somewhere with fewer rocks and tree roots next time --" 

"Your dog is going to disagree with that statement *vehemently*, son." 

"You don't know, Daddy. My dog might be a cute little fluffy spaniel --" 

Treville *chokes* -- 

"The sort what likes *pillows* and *bathing* and being sodding *indoors*." 

"Mm. I suppose anything's *possible*, son..." 

"That's *right* --" 

"But..." 

"But *what*?" 

Treville grips that growing *knot* again -- 

Porthos throws his head back and howls -- 

Treville pumps that knot once -- 

Again -- 

*Again* -- 

Porthos *chokes* on his howl and yips *repeatedly* -- 

"Let's remember whose son you are, Porthos..." 

"I -- fuck -- I --" 

"Let's remember whose *boy* you are." 

"*Fuck*, Daddy --" 

"Let's remember who you *belong* to -- now and *forever* -- and let us *also* remember that *Aramis* wouldn't bend for a *spaniel* short of dire emergency." 

(My *Daddy*!) 

"Emergencies *do* happen, son. And you *are* an exceedingly pragmatic young man." 

(I -- hm. I do not wish to think about tiny, tame spaniel cocks, my Daddy.) 

"You have my permission to only think about the cocks of big, wild hounds like your mate and your Daddy," Treville says, and reaches for *Jason* --

(Did you need my *assistance*, amant...?) 

I could use a shadow or two...

(Mm. So you *could*...) 

And, in *less* than a blink, there's a long, silky-hot shadow winding and slithering around Treville's wrist. Mm. Perfect, thank you, lover... 

(*Anytime*...) 

Treville nips Porthos's jaw for attention -- 

Porthos gasps -- 

Shakes -- 

"Please -- fuck -- what...?" He's blinking and half-*dazed*, and it's *possible* that Treville should, at the very least, stop *petting* that knot -- 

For a *moment* or two -- 

"Don't -- don't stop -- please -- fuck, your *calluses*, Daddy --" 

"You've wanted them on you..." 

"*Yes* --" 

"On your beautiful cock..." 

"All -- all *over*!" 

(Our Porthos has *several* dreams of our Daddy impatiently shoving the inadequate surgeons aside and beginning to work on his many aches and pains *himself*.) 

Treville *coughs* -- "Son." 

"*Look* --" 

(Our *Daddy* has many, many, *many* dreams of you sitting on his lap like a *much* smaller boy, my Porthos...) 

Treville blushes *hard* -- 

Porthos blinks -- "What. I. Am I *actually* smaller? I mean --" 

(No, my Porthos! Our good Daddy loves you just as you are!) 

"Then... how..." 

(Our good Daddy wishes to strain and struggle as he pets you and strokes you and, eventually, rocks you to *sleep*,) Aramis says. Cheerfully. 

"I." 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose. 

The shadow pets him.

"What -- I -- where did *that* come from?" 

(Our good Daddy borrowed it from our Jason! I believe he wishes to use it in your arse, my Porthos.) 

Porthos grunts *inspiringly* -- 

Treville looks *up* -- "We can definitely think about that now --" 

"Wait, wait, just to be clear." 

"Yes, son?" 

"You wanted to sit me on your lap in non-deviant ways, pet me, and rock me to *sleep* -- all of that. *Before* you knew I was your son?" 

"No, son." 

"Oh." 

"I was *absolutely* being a deviant in every last moment of those fantasies, including the parts where you *agreed to let me adopt you*," Treville says, and smiles wryly. 

Porthos stares at him.

(Good Daddy. Good Daddy.) 

"Thank you, son --" 

"Right, so." 

"Mm?" 

"That memory you shared of Mum is making a lot more sense now. With the. The crying and all." 

Treville coughs a painful laugh. "I'm... glad? We'll just say I'm glad." 

Porthos snickers and leans in, licking Treville's mouth thoroughly before nuzzling -- and rumbling. "I like it, Daddy. I *love* it. I love that you were *thinking* about me like that --" 

"I --" 

(Because, my Daddy, our Porthos has many very beautiful dreams of being given the *privilege* of being your son --) 

"And uh. Not *all* of those dreams were *entirely* separate from the dreams where you give me the privilege of being your lover." 

Aramis strokes Porthos's spirit -- 

Caresses and shares his scents -- but not very much of them, ultimately. 

"Son...?" 

(My Porthos must not be distracted!) 

Treville snorts -- 

And Porthos laughs breathlessly, nostrils still flaring over and over again. "It's never distraction when it's you, precious." 

(Then what is it!) 

"The proper state of *being*," Porthos says, nodding judiciously and flaring his nostrils again -- 

Licking out just a little -- 

Aramis makes a soft, juddering noise -- 

(*Oh*, my,) *Jason* says -- 

Yes, lover? 

(I've just been... *informed* by our Aramis that *you're* not doing enough to distract our Porthos.) 

Well, all *right* then. 

(Yes --) 

Say...

(Mm...?)

Is he doing that informing with those hard black fingers somewhere interesting?

(He's teasing *tendrils* of his spirit-magery into every inadequately-*warded* pocket I *have*.) 

Treville wags his head judiciously. And Athos?

(Positively *attacking* my library. I've *just* about convinced him that he ought not do so with tooth and... hoof...) 

Treville sighs happily. Such good boys. 

(Oh -- fuck --) 

Mm? 

(Aramis is attempting to pick the locks on all of my memories of *whoring*.) 

You locked those *up*?

(I didn't think anyone we *liked* would go rifling through my *soul*!) 

Hm. Well. You know better now, don't you?

(Arse -- oh -- murdering *boggarts* -- he's gotten through to my memories of whoring when I've been *melancholy* --) 

You might want to intercept a few of those questions... 

(Yes, I -- until *later*,) Jason says, and the connection dims -- 

And Treville comes back to himself grinning and pleased in that part of himself that *only* gets touched when people he likes realize just how wonderful Jason is -- 

And Porthos smiles softly at him. "He's great. I --" He shakes his head and smiles wider. "I can't wait to know him as well as you do, Daddy." 

Treville shivers. "Son, I'm so hungry for you..." 

"Yeah. Yeah, I..." Porthos licks his lips -- 

Looks at the shadow -- 

And laughs hard. "Are you *sure* you want to use *that* in my arse? You know, as opposed to...?" And he raises his eyebrows. 

Treville grins -- and concentrates just *so* -- 

"Oh. Uh. It's... it's leaking... some kind of lubricant? Slick? From bloody *where*?" 

"A pocket-sphere. Jason can and *will* teach you how to make your own, though you won't be able to make any quite so sophisticated as the ones where he keeps his -- perfectly -- heated lubricant." 

Porthos's jaw drops for a moment -- and then he snickers hard -- 

Kneels *up* -- 

And raises his eyebrows *again*. 

"Yes, son...?" 

"You should consider this a heartfelt request to shove that thing *right* up my -- oh, *fuck* --" 

Treville laughs hard and catches his magnificent son by the *hips* when he starts to sway --

"Fuck fuck -- *fuck* -- *Daddy*!" 

Treville kneels up and nips Porthos's lips. "Shh, shh..." 

"I -- you -- *fuck* --" 

"Tell me you want it... rougher." 

"*Shit* --" 

"Tell me you want it *bigger*." 

"I -- I want your *fingers*! *Please*!" 

Treville inhales sharply *as* his belly drops -- and nods. "Then what you *really* want -- is for it to be *wetter*." 

"I -- *FUCK*!" 

"Shh... just... working it all nice and deep," Treville says, and concentrates -- 

"Daddy -- *Daddy* --" 

"I won't hurt you, son. Not until we *both* need it." 

Porthos throws his head back and *sweats* -- 

Treville licks a salty path along his *throat* -- "Now, son," he says, and eases the *dripping* shadow out -- 

"Please -- please don't *wait*, Daddy!" 

Treville lets the shadow slick his entire *hand*, just in case -- and then slips right in with two fingers, slow and hard and *deep*. 

"Unh -- oh. Oh..." 

"Yes, son...?" 

"I. I can feel all your *calluses*," Porthos says, and he's blinking -- 

Licking his lips -- 

Flushing *deeply* -- 

"You haven't used oil for your adventures..." 

"No, Daddy. I haven't been able to, you know --" 

"I do. You will *never* run out of oil from now on," Treville says, and starts to thrust -- 

To twist -- 

To *screw* his way in, because he can't wait, he can't -- 

Porthos's breathing is already rough, already *hitching* -- 

It's -- 

"Do you like it, son...?" 

"Daddy..." 

"Mm? Do you like it when I fuck you like this?" 

Porthos's cock *jerks* between them, hard and *sweet*. 

"Oh, son... answer me." 

"Aramis. Aramis is -- holding me. Inside me. I feel like I can do anything..." 

"You can --" 

"I feel like I can *say* anything, *be* anything --" 

"You *can* --" 

"Daddy, I want you to fuck me *blind*," Porthos says, and his eyes are wide and *black*, even in the afternoon sun, and his lips are swollen -- *bitten* -- and his mind is -- clear. 

Easy with this. *Sure* -- 

Porthos's *smile* is loose and easy -- "Everything's changed. Just -- everything --" 

"Yes --" 

"But. I can't get away from the fact that you're even *more* of the man I've been dreaming about forever than I *thought* you were. I -- I don't *want* to get away from it. Daddy, I was dreaming about you before we *met* -- uh. The second time," Porthos says, and -- 

And they're laughing together -- 

Moving in to kiss, to nuzzle, to lick and lap -- 

And Treville can't wait anymore. He *fucks* his beautiful son with his fingers, he -- he fucks him hard, fucks him dirty, fucks him just a little *mean*, and there are *many* parts of him which only want him to slow this down, make this more gentle -- 

Open his beautiful boy *carefully* -- 

*Show* his beautiful boy how good he can *be* -- but. 

It doesn't take any time, at all, before Porthos is clutching Treville's sides -- 

Nosing into the join of Treville's throat and shoulder -- 

Panting and crooning and -- 

And shoving himself *back* onto Treville's fingers, *grinding* himself -- 

Fuck, *riding* Treville's fingers and sharing, clumsily, fantasy after fantasy of doing exactly this in the surgery at the garrison -- 

Bent over Treville's *desk* -- 

Up against the wall in an improbably-roomy *powder* shed -- 

In a completely *different* patch of woods, and it's night in that fantasy, dark enough that Porthos's blushes don't show, dark enough that Porthos can let himself be shameless, entirely *shameless* -- 

Just as shameless as he's being right now. Just -- 

Treville growls and crooks -- 

Porthos's rhythm stutters as he sobs -- 

Shakes and *sobs* -- 

Drools on Treville's *shoulder* -- 

"Oh, son. Oh, son, I *need* you," Treville says, and crooks again -- 

Again and again and *again*, and Porthos is clutching hard enough to leave bruises, crooning and *barking* -- 

His cock is spitting so much slick between them that Treville's belly-fur is *soaked* --

He's trying to lift his *arse* into it -- 

Oh -- 

Oh, that's a *beautiful* idea, but Treville's not going to have his son in *any* way other than face to face for their *first* time. He has to see. 

He has to let his boy *see*. 

And Porthos is whining now, licking at his own spit on Treville's throat and cheek -- 

Shaking all *over* -- 

And Treville has three fingers inside him, three fingers in that beautiful and *hot* little hole, so -- 

He fucks his son *hard*, fucks him so hard Porthos has to *bounce* for it, has to *work* just to take it -- 

"Oh, good boy -- good *boy* --" 

"Daddy -- D-*Daddy* --" 

"Just keep taking it, son -- you're doing it just right --" 

"Please -- please, I'm so *hard* --"

"I'll take care of you, son. I'll give you just what you *need*," Treville says, and crooks *again* -- 

Porthos throws his head back and howls -- 

Howls and *howls*, quieting the forest -- and doesn't stop bouncing on Treville's fingers for even a moment. 

"You're so perfect, son. You're so bloody *beautiful*, and I've wanted you, needed you, *ached* for you --" 

"Daddy --" 

"I want you in every *possible* way," Treville says, and *twists* his fingers -- 

Porthos *barks* a cry -- 

"I want you on your back. On your *face*. On your *knees* --" 

"Yes, Daddy, *yes*!" 

"There's nothing you can't *have* from me, son. I want your big, gorgeous cock in my *throat* --" 

"*HNH* --" 

"I want your spend all over my *face* --" 

"*Anything*!" 

Treville twists again -- Porthos loosens. There. Right -- 

He snarls and starts to work in the fourth finger -- 

"*Daddy*!" 

"I'm going to teach you about my tongue, son..." 

"Yeah -- oh -- oh, *yeah* --" 

"I'm going to teach you to bend *right* over for me every time you so much as see my tongue *peeking* between my teeth --" 

"*FUCK* --" And Porthos clenches -- not tight. Just as tight as he *can* with the tips of four fingers holding him open. 

"Oh, son... you have to open for me," Treville says, and licks the sweat from his moustache. 

Porthos pants and pants and -- clenches harder for a moment -- 

"You have to open right up and -- let your Daddy in..." 

"God -- *fuck* --" 

"You want your Daddy to fuck you, don't you?" 

"Please I -- so *much* --" 

"You want your Daddy to fuck you, and *knot* you, and --" 

And Porthos gasps and flexes open, just like that. 

Treville kisses Porthos's ear and pushes in, all the way in, all the way *in*. "You're mine, son. You're *mine* -- and I'm going to make you feel it." 

"Please, Daddy, you -- you..." And Porthos sobs again, *sniffles* -- 

Treville shivers and kisses his boy, his beautiful -- 

Kisses softly, everywhere he can reach -- 

"I'm going to open you just a little more, son..." 

"*Please* --" 

"Shh, you need to get *fucked*, I know. But we *both* need me to do it *properly*," Treville says, and nips Porthos's ear. "I love you. I love you," he says, and thrusts -- 

"Hnh --" 

And thrusts -- 

"Please --" 

And thrusts *hard* -- 

And that gets him another howl, a *contained* writhe that just keeps going as Treville keeps thrusting, starts *twisting* just a little -- 

Porthos can't seem to make himself release Treville's sides, can't seem to take his face away from Treville's throat -- not for long -- but he also can't keep himself still. 

He's moving desperately, moving like he's *restrained* -- 

And Treville knows that some of the whuffing he's hearing is his own, hungry and gasping, hungry and *taking* every breath of his son on the air -- 

"I'm so *needy* for you, son, I'm so --" Treville snarls and crooks with all four fingers -- 

Porthos sobs and whines and whines like a pup, like a boy, like -- 

And when Treville checks, his knot is much, much bigger and *harder* than it was even ten minutes ago. 

It -- "Oh, son... now." 

Porthos whimpers a question -- 

Treville tilts his head up just enough that he can *take* his throat in a bite -- 

*Hold* it -- 

Growl and *hold* it -- and pull out of Porthos's arse slowly and steadily while his boy shakes and shivers. 

And -- he can't wait. He *can't*. 

A *directed* gesture and the shadow is slicking his cock, and Treville can manhandle his son into position, just -- 

Just a little *closer* -- 

Break the bite and look into those dazed and beautiful *eyes*, and -- 

No, he can do better. He can *be* better: "Son. Are you ready for me?" 

For a long moment, Porthos only stares at him as though Treville had started speaking a demon language... but then he whuffs laughter -- 

Rolls his *head* on his neck -- 

"Daddy, I'm *ready* for you to roll me out flat and make me into the world's filthiest *pastry* --" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"But, you know, the knotting would work, too. If you're *up* for it," Porthos says -- and *looks* at him.

And Treville -- can't name all the things he's feeling. Can't *touch* all the things he's feeling, because his heart is aching as much as his cock is, because his eyes are damp, because he wants to *hold* his son and he wants to hold his son down and fuck him *blind*, because -- 

"So uh. *I'm* up for all of that. Just in case you weren't sure, yet." 

Treville snarls, shoving his clean hand into Porthos's perfect curls and yanking him in for a kiss, a *kiss* -- 

He needs to be Porthos's human-*enough* father just for *this* -- 

A *moment* -- 

(I love everything about you, Daddy...) 

And they're groaning together when the dog's tongue grows right into Porthos's mouth -- 

When Treville urges Porthos to press just that slightest bit closer -- 

When Porthos spreads himself and urges -- 

And they urge -- 

And they -- 

And the push makes Treville squeeze his eyes shut against heat, against sleek pressure and a home he can't believe he *deserves* -- 

"*Yours*, Daddy -- I -- I --" And Porthos growls and *drops* -- 

*Gasps* rather than howls -- 

Treville's eyes fly open as he grunts and bucks *helplessly* -- 

They stare into each other and gasp *together* -- 

Shudder and *clutch* at each other like desperate children -- and Treville can't do anything but pull Porthos into his arms, hold him, *hold* him -- 

Pull Porthos's head down against his throat and *pet* him -- 

And then Porthos *clenches* and Treville growls and bucks again -- 

Again -- 

*Again* -- 

"Oh -- *fuck*, yes, Daddy --" 

"I -- tell me -- *tell* me --" And Treville wants to be more coherent, wants to be *able* to ask his son to *direct* him, wants -- 

"Fuck, Daddy, just give it to me, just --" And Porthos croons and clenches *violently* -- 

Treville snarls and *grips* Porthos around the chest -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

Treville shoves in -- 

In -- 

Up and *in*, and he has the rhythm now, it has *him*, and Porthos tilts his head back and stares into his eyes -- 

Porthos is sharing his shock, his -- 

His *need*, and it's so beautiful, so perfect, so -- 

Treville wants just this, just *this*, but. 

"But? But what, Daddy? What --" 

"I. I need to knot you so *badly*," Treville says, and he's groaning, growling, *clutching* -- 

Porthos's jaw *drops* -- but only for a moment before he's doing his best to *grind* down on Treville's knot, down and down and Treville is barking, snapping, *pumping* -- 

"Yeah -- yeah, Daddy, get *in* --" 

"*Porthos* --" 

"Here --" And Porthos reaches back and spreads himself *wide* -- "Fuck -- *fuck*, I can feel you -- I can almost *taste* how hot you are, Daddy, how much you -- oh, you're throbbing so *much* --" 

And Treville would *like* to have something to *say* to that, but all he can do right now is push in, push *in* -- 

Just -- 

As steadily as he *can*, because he will not hurt his son, he will *not* hurt his *son*, and he's growling helplessly, his son is so much, so hot, so -- 

It's the oldest binding on his *soul*, and Treville can't feel anything, right now, but how long it's been *reaching*, aching and incomplete, hungry and *incomplete* -- 

How much it needs -- 

How much *he* needs, and -- 

And Porthos is giving him his wonder again, even as his jaw falls open for the *size*, for the feeling of being stretched open just that wide, for -- 

"You, Daddy -- *you* --" 

"Mine -- you -- *mine*!" 

"Please, just -- I need --" 

"I know what you *need*," Treville says, dropping his hands to Porthos's hips, gripping tight and holding him still for his *thrust* -- 

And Porthos never looks away as the knot pops in, not for a moment, not even when the howl takes him. He screams it out right in Treville's face, *gives* Treville that along with everything else, and Treville has to bite, has to lick, has to grip, has to hold and -- 

And make his beautiful boy *ride* -- 

"D-don't look away, Daddy!" 

"I *won't*." 

"Don't -- *don't* --" 

"I won't let you *go*, son!" 

"*Fuck* -- I --" And Porthos shudders and clenches -- 

Howls in Treville's *face* again -- 

"*Yes*, son!" 

"I -- I -- *harder*!" 

Treville snarls and gives it to his boy, his son, his *love*, gives it to him like he's precisely as powerful as he is , as *needed* -- 

Porthos winces with *lust*, cock jerking and swelling just a little more -- 

Knot almost *purpling* -- 

And Treville's own knot *flexes* for the sight of it, hungry and hungrier for the countless fantasies that *bloom* for the sight of it -- 

His son -- 

His *son* -- and Treville can make this better for both of them. He can -- 

He moves one hand to the back of Porthos's neck and the other to his hot, pulsing *knot* -- 

Porthos whuffs before Treville does more than *caress* -- and sobs and bucks and *bucks* when Treville squeezes with both hands -- 

Sobs and does his best to ride the way he'd ridden Treville's fingers -- 

Bounces and *jerks* on Treville's knot -- 

Tries and *fails* to get anywhere, to -- 

Oh, but it feels perfect, feels hard, *rough*, *right*, and Porthos is gasping more, *sobbing* more, and Treville works that knot, works that beautiful fat knot while he can still think, while -- 

Oh, but his own hands are shaking, clumsy, needy as the rest of him -- 

He can't get them to work the right way without gripping *tightly* -- 

And when Porthos howls this time, tears fall between them, tears roll down Porthos's cheeks -- 

Treville darts in and licks them away, bites them *away* -- 

Porthos clenches hard *twice* -- 

Treville gasps and shoves in-in-*in*, off-rhythm and *sharp*, and Porthos is sniffling again, *trying* to ride more, to get the rhythm back, to *take* him -- 

Treville can't. He *can't*. He grips Porthos's neck bruisingly tight, pulls him in until they're breathing each other's breath -- 

"D-Daddy --" 

"Be still. Let me have you." 

"*Fuck* -- I --" 

"Say *yes*." 

"Yes! Yes!" 

Treville growls and moves his hand from Porthos's neck to his hip -- 

*Keeps* his other hand on that still-growing knot -- 

Holds his boy *tight* -- and pulls him into every thrust -- 

Every buck -- 

Every *shove*, and it's so smooth, so right, so -- 

So easy and *right*, and it feels like they've had this every night for years, like they've never been apart, like Treville had never spent long nights empty and *aching* because he didn't know where his son was, didn't know if he was lonely, didn't know if he was hurt, didn't know if he was *cold* -- but knew that *he* was all of those things. 

In *this* moment, those nights are obliterated. In this -- 

This *heat* -- 

And Porthos is so easy in his hands, so slick with sweat, so hungry, so *open* -- 

And so open for his *knot*, for every -- 

Oh, every -- 

And Treville can't hold back anything anymore, can't -- 

He *works* Porthos on his knot and darts in, biting his shoulder *right* on the old, stretched-out scar -- 

Porthos *yells* -- 

And Treville can feel his Amina-love there -- 

He can almost *smell* his Amina-love there --

*Their* Amina, now and forever, and they can be together in this, they can -- 

For always -- 

For the blood in their *veins* --

For the blood in Treville's *mouth*, and Treville is groaning, lapping, *sucking* -- and fucking his boy *harder*, because Porthos is clenching hard, raggedly, over and over -- 

Treville starts to *stroke* that cock, squeezing the knot on every downstroke, giving it to himself, giving himself everything of his beautiful -- 

And Porthos gasps his way into another sob -- 

Another and another -- 

"Oh -- oh *fuck* --" And he spurts all over Treville's chest, hot and slick, animal-musky, *raw* -- 

Treville is *gulping* breaths, trying desperately to taste, *needing* -- 

He will *not* move either of his hands to swipe some up -- 

He has to hold his boy steady -- 

He -- 

"Oh -- I --" And Porthos is shuddering, still clenching, still *crooning* -- but he brings shaking and slick fingers to Treville's mouth -- 

He *paints* Treville's mouth with his spend -- 

Treville growls and *bites* -- 

Porthos grunts and clenches again, *spurts* again -- 

And Treville *drops* his beautiful boy onto his back, shoves his right knee back to his chest -- 

"Oh -- fuck, *yes*!" 

And has him, *has* him, fucks him hard and fast and needy, just -- 

He tries not to be *brutal* -- 

He *tries*, but Porthos's eyes are still so wide -- 

His smile is so *bright* -- 

And he swipes more spend up on his long, strong, *shaking* fingers --

And he reaches for Treville's gasping mouth *while* pulling his other leg up and *back*, and Treville is whining, crooning with his boy, aching as his knot swells and swells -- 

"Oh shit, *Daddy* --" 

Treville is yelping with every *slam* -- 

"Fuck fuck -- NNGH fuck so *big* --" 

Treville yelps and *barks* -- 

In -- 

*In* -- 

And then Porthos grips Treville's hips with his thighs and *yanks* him in, and Treville's knot won't let him move, won't let him breathe, won't let him *see* -- 

He's rutting his way through a silent, desperate *howl* -- 

He's burning all *through* himself -- 

He's spending himself *mindless*, spurting hot and helpless, and oh -- 

*Oh* -- 

"Daddy..." 

He's exactly as in love as he should be. 

Treville pants and croons his way through the spasms -- 

Through the *continued* swelling that's making him shudder, that's going to make it *impossible* for them to move for the better part of another *hour* -- 

Through the fire in his blood -- and the way it doesn't extinguish itself so much as spread all through him, all through every cold and aching part of his soul, until he can't help believing that he won't ever be cold again --

And Porthos snickers breathlessly. 

Treville pants and grins, bracing himself a little better on his hands. "Son. How are you?" 

"A lot less bloody poetic than *you* are when I'm spending up someone's arse." 

"Well, that's a character failing, son, but --" 

Porthos splutters -- 

Treville winks. "I promise to recite my favourite poems to you as soon as possible." 

"Right, right, 'course. I might uh... respond a bit better to that if you give me some incentive, Daddy." 

"Mm. Right you are. I'll recite the poetry directly into your arse."

Porthos nods judiciously. "I'll need something really wordy, then. Dense, like." 

"Son, you just finally gave me a reason to read the family bible." 

Porthos *guffaws* -- and then chokes a bit. 

Treville hums. "You *may* find things feel slightly... different when you're tied."

"Bloody *hell*! That made it feel like you shoved a bloody cannonball up there!" 

"I *promise* not to do that without asking you first." 

"Right, well, that's fine, then."

Treville grins helplessly. "My beautiful son..." 

Porthos grins right back. "You uh... that was bloody fantastic, by the way." 

Treville braces himself on one hand and traces the lines of Porthos's face with his -- somewhat -- *cleaner* hand. "Was it like you dreamed, son...?" 

"Well, on the one hand, there are -- *again* --- a lot more rocks than there were in my fantasies --" 

Treville *snorts* -- 

"On the other hand, though..." Porthos's smile softens and he licks his lips. "I never..." He shakes his head and swallows. "I haven't really... let go like that. Not since I was a kid." 

Treville inhales and searches his son. "Are you all right --" 

"I'm good. I promise. I mean -- I *couldn't* have let go like that without Aramis yanking us *both* down the path like he did --" 

"And he stayed with you." 

"Yeah. I. He's always going to be there. Isn't he?" 

Treville hums. "He will, son. That's what having a mate means." 

"I --" 

"Especially when you're having that mate around an *immortal* *mage* who has, in recent years, learned how to *share* his immortality with others," Treville says, and -- he doesn't pull on a bland expression. He's not capable of that. 

"I. Oh." Porthos blinks rapidly, obviously considering -- "Oh." 

"Yes, son --" 

"This is why -- neither of you said a word about us kids sharing blood with Jason right away. Even though he was right *there*, and -- you're asking us. You're actually -- you're giving us the option." 

Treville smiles wryly. "It was our *intention* to do that, son. We believe -- strongly -- that Mab didn't wait for the niceties with Athos and Aramis." 

Porthos blinks again -- 

Inhales sharply -- 

"Right, that -- that makes sense. So..." 

"Ask, son." 

Porthos frowns. "You know it's *really* fucked-up that we're having this conversation while I'm naked on my back with your cock up my arse, right?" 

"To be fair --" 

"No." 

"-- we *could've* been having this conversation --" 

"No, Daddy --" 

"-- *before* I let you spend." 

Porthos's expression is pinched. "Would you have *done* that? Would *Jason*?" 

"Jason's far too noble for that." 

"But you're *not*?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I... don't think you knew what you were feeling." 

"What? What do you mean?" 

"You were barely a month old when Guillou dropped the veil between us. An infant. You spent your whole childhood with an *absence* -- a *lack* -- instead of your father. Instead of the man you were blood- and soul-bonded to," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow gently. 

"I -- shit. I've always. I've spent my life hustling, Daddy, just -- just *hustling*. Looking for *something*. Always *empty*, yeah, but I was telling myself that it was just grief. 'Just' grief. For Mum, for all the others --" 

"But it was there even before you lost everyone. Wasn't it." 

"*Yes*, I -- and now it's not there anymore, and I --" Porthos laughs breathlessly. *Desperately*. "I thought I was just -- just *relaxing*. Happy to *be* with the man I admired most and the boy I'm in *love* with -- *shit*." He meets Treville's eyes. "You -- you knew exactly what you were losing, and what that empty feeling was, and why it never went away, and what it meant when it *did* go away... and now you have the chance to make it stay away. Forever." 

Treville inclines his head. 

Porthos swallows hard. "I'd never say no, sir -- Daddy --" 

"Shh, son -- give yourself time to *think* about all of this --" 

"*Don't* -- I. I only called you *sir* because I want to take your orders in every single *way* right now, all right?" 

Treville takes a breath -- "Do you, now..." 

"*Yes*, Daddy. I can't -- I can't even *comprehend* the kind of control you're using right now. I can't -- I'd be *begging* in your place. Assuming I wasn't wielding the knife *myself*." 

Treville shivers and strokes Porthos's cheek with his thumb. "One day, you're going to have children of your own, son --" 

"No -- I mean -- I don't plan --" 

"Son. My cock didn't even *work* that way when I was your age. Before my soul was bound to a dog's, I wasn't capable of having anything but the most joyless, mechanical, and *passionless* sex *imaginable* with women --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"-- and, yes, that's why your mother and I didn't make love until we *were* bound -- and bound to *you*. I didn't just 'not plan' to have children at that point twenty-odd years ago; I *knew* that I'd never have children. Within a year? I had you and *two* godchildren. Plan ahead." 

Porthos blinks rapidly again -- "Uhh. Got it. You were saying?"

Treville hums and strokes Porthos's lower lip. "You're going to have children -- one way or another. And, within seconds of meeting them, you're going to come to the realization that there isn't a single thing you wouldn't do for their life, their light, their hope... or their happiness. No matter what doing -- or not doing -- those things would do to and for your own. Or, for that matter, the rest of the world's." 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"You're making me think about all the mangled bodies you left behind you while you were fighting for -- us, Daddy." 

Treville winces -- 

"I mean, it'd be one thing if we weren't sodding *tied* right now --" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"Say something *nice*!" 

Treville thinks --

"Think *faster*!" 

"Right you are, son -- ah -- Aramis is teasing Jason bloody." 

"Oh." Porthos blinks again. "Yeah?" 

"He's been mining Jason's sexual memories for embarrassing moments, and he's discovered certain... themes, shall we say?" 

Porthos's smile for that is wet, wide, and *beautifully* ribald. "Got a few *fixations*, does our Jason?" 

"*Oh*, yes, son. At the moment, our *Aramis* is interrogating Jason in some detail about his taste for enslaving certain lovers utterly -- to the point where they're not even allowed to be entirely *conscious* without his permission."

Porthos looks stricken. 

"I -- hm. Perhaps. Perhaps I'll try to think of something... nicer..."


	9. You have to wonder what a child raised primarily by Treville and Jason Blood would be like. And by you, I mean me.

Daddy had pretended -- damned convincingly, really -- to be the Captain for long enough to make his order for Porthos to stay late at the garrison awaiting further orders absolutely *horrifying* for all the men surrounding Porthos at the time. 

Porthos had been teaching some few of the men closest to getting their commissions just a *few* more lessons about hand-to-hand, and he *always* gets a crowd for that -- 

Too much of one to just skive off -- 

Even if he's just skiving off to work on his *own* weaknesses -- 

Well, Daddy hadn't been able to catch him alone before *he* had to go babysit the royals for... whatever reason it is *this* time, so Porthos doesn't actually *know* why he's still here when no one else is -- 

When he *could* be on his way back to Treville's manor -- 

Back to *Aramis* -- 

What with all the -- admittedly necessary -- additional time spent training and working with the other men while they were all on manoeuvres...

Well, the 'two days' are pushing *four* -- 

Four long, painful, *maddening* -- 

And it's so *good* to have Aramis right there in his mind and heart and *soul* whenever he reaches even a *little*, to have had Aramis there for every even half-idle moment -- and others. 

He's been training his precious, *too*. Every moment he *could* train him -- and Athos, too -- because they're both hungry for it -- 

Hungrier for it, in some ways, than they are for the ability to make themselves appear *human* -- 

It's good. 

It's bloody *great* -- teaching is one of the things Porthos loves *best* about his life as a Musketeer -- but. 

He hadn't actually *needed* his Daddy to tell him that his knot would be making a whole lot of the important decisions in his life from now on. Case in point: His *knot* wants him to know, with *absolute* crystal clarity, that Porthos has not tied Aramis even *once*. 

Nor has he tied Aramis while taking his blood. 

Nor has he tied Aramis in *any* of the wonderfully fragrant and *green* places they've visited in the past few days. 

Nor has he -- well. *Daddy* seems to think that Porthos's *dog* is voicing at least some of the opinions Porthos is currently ascribing to his knot, but a) Daddy's had Porthos's dog under lock and key since *before* that visit to bloody *Faerie*, and b) Daddy doesn't get a vote on *anything* until they're on their way back to the manor.

(Oh, yes, my Porthos, I agree!) And Aramis fills Porthos with his warm scents, his loving scents, his *soothing* scents -- 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and -- does *not* flub his shot with the musket, thank you very much. He's *absolutely* turning to head back to the barracks so he can change out of his training clothes and get *out* of here, though -- 

(Oh, but -- we are no longer in the manor, my beautiful Porthos.) 

Porthos blinks and *stops* rumbling -- where *are* you, precious?

(In our Daddy's rooms in *Paris*, where we will all finally meet our Thomas once *he* returns from seducing a bishop for Daddy.) 

I. What?

(Diplomacy must not be limited, my Porthos.) 

No, I know, but... what? I mean -- that's what he's been up to? That's how his inner courtier works?

(Apparently so, my Porthos! Our Jason has had many intriguing tales of just this! Though, it must be said, he is also one of our good Daddy's assassins.) 

Porthos nods. That does seem more Daddy's speed. 

(Porthos! Our good Daddy is not so small as this!) 

Small -- you -- I -- wait, Daddy's rooms are barely a mile *away* from here. I can bloody *walk* there -- 

(But you will *not*,) Aramis says, and those are his *firm* scents --

But I won't, because -- uh. *Why* won't I walk?

(Because my Porthos has an image to maintain!) 

I bloody *what*?

(You --) 

"You heard him, son," *Daddy* says, clapping his shoulder all firm and Captain-ish -- 

"*Fuck* -- I mean -- *sir* --" 

Daddy snorts. "There's no one here, son. As you may have noticed, we're the only people in range who *can* see in this light."

Because -- it's absolutely past sundown. 

And he's still shooting. 

*Completely* suspiciously -- right. Porthos winces. "I'm --" 

"Don't apologize, son. I made *countless* more mistakes than you're making when it was my turn, and I was *surrounded* by people who could tap me on the shoulder when I was in danger of letting the... dog out of the bag," Daddy says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos takes a breath and nods. "Right, sir. I'll just um -- remember." 

Daddy's expression quirks. "I'm Daddy in your head and 'sir' out loud...?" 

"I think that bloody makes *sense*!" 

Daddy bites the tip of his tongue on a laugh that Porthos can *feel* -- 

And Aramis helps him glare at the man. 

Daddy *coughs* -- "Right you are, sons. What's our Athos doing, mm? Why wasn't *he* watching Porthos shoot?" 

(He is discussing our Jason's teaching methods with him, my Daddy!) 

Porthos nods for that -- and stops. 

And considers -- 

And Daddy barks a laugh. "He's decided Jason is too bloody slow about things -- no. You've *both* decided Jason's being too slow and careful and *delicate*, and now you're taking turns wearing him down." 

Porthos nods for *that* -- 

(My *Daddy*!) 

Daddy *looks* at Aramis in their shared soul-space -- 

Aramis shares his dangerous and dare-you scents -- (You should *know*, my Daddy, that hesitation breeds *error* and missed *opportunities*.) 

Porthos wags his head a little -- 

And Daddy smiles crookedly. "What I *know* is that Jason will *absolutely* allow himself to be worn down --" 

(*Good*!) 

"-- and that you and Athos *both* may very well come to regret that," Daddy says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blinks and looks to Aramis in their soul-space -- he is still, and thoughtful, and gathering his scents to *himself* for long moments. Until Porthos reaches -- 

And then Aramis shares his *calculating* scents, and those... those scents that Porthos hasn't been able to put a name to, yet. The ones that make it even harder to be sure of what age Aramis actually *is*. 

They can say, with Athos, that it was a bit less than twenty-one years since he was kidnapped out of his crib at age fourteen months, and so his faun's body is artificially youthful by about six or seven years. With Aramis... 

They haven't found hide nor hair of his people -- of his good *mother* -- on this *sphere*, and that arsehole Steal had traveled all over for his bloody atrocities. There's no telling how long he'd had Aramis, and how old he's supposed to *be*. His scents sometimes, though -- 

They say he's even older than all that horror and pain would account for. 

Porthos isn't sure what he can do about that -- if there is even anything, at all -- but he knows he needs to be there for his mate. Needs to love him and keep him, hold him and just -- touch him. 

Always and -- 

(Always, my Porthos. *Always*,) Aramis says, and his scents start to warm and soften again. He reaches for Daddy from within the grip of Porthos's spirit -- 

"I'm listening, son..." 

(My Daddy... Athos and I will never *disdain* a gentle touch, or a careful *man*. But...) 

Porthos flares his nostrils -- and nods while Daddy is doing the exact same thing. "You need the gentleness and care to come on a schedule that feels *safe*. Don't you, precious." 

(Yes, my Porthos. I -- there has not been enough safety. There has, at *many* times, been no safety, at all.) 

"You're heard, son," Daddy says, and reaches for Jason -- 

(Asar's missing *cock*, would you *please* tell your children --) 

"They're your children, too, lover --" 

(-- to be *sane*!) 

"I can't do that... at the moment," Daddy says, and... pushes the knowledge at Jason. Carefully and easily, making it so Athos and Aramis only *have* to be aware of him doing it if they *want* to be -- 

Porthos has to *learn* that -- 

But Jason is taking a breath -- (I... mm. Understood, amant. And so are both of *you*, Athos and Aramis.) 

(Oh, yes?) 

Athos raises a *brutally*-tangible eyebrow -- 

And Jason laughs softly. (Come to the library with Athos and me, Aramis. I'm about to show you both *exactly* how to... hmm... *fold* your spirits -- and the bodies they inhabit -- into the shapes you desire, whether or *not* your spirits are ready to *do* that. It *will* come in handy.) 

Athos's smile is *blinding* within them -- 

Aramis judders his way through a pleased noise -- (Good Teacher. Good Teacher.) 

Porthos can't *help* but be a bit *concerned* about all this -- 

And then Aramis *floods* Porthos with his hot scents, his *deep* scents, his *musk* -- 

Porthos growls and *reels* -- 

He's vaguely aware of Daddy *steadying* him -- 

"*Precious* --" 

(Do not worry, my Porthos! I will make it *clear* to our Jason that I must be left fresh and *ready* for my good mate!) 

"*Fuck* --" 

And then Aramis fades within him -- 

Fades and *goes* -- 

Porthos is gulping for his scents and not *getting* them -- 

And Daddy is laughing at him. 

"Yeah, laugh it up, you arse. One day I'll figure out how to bloody cock-tease *you*." 

Daddy snickers and clasps Porthos's shoulder, steering him toward the stables. "Just visit me in my office while you're sweaty and hard and *don't* bend over anything, son. I'm a simple man with simple tastes."

That... Porthos frowns. 

"No...?" 

"I *know* -- some of -- what you get up to with *Jason*, Daddy." 

"Ah. Well, he's *not* a simple man, and he *doesn't* have simple tastes." 

Porthos looks at him. *Hard*. 

Daddy snickers. "I... may have picked up a *few* complex... tastes... over the years..."

"You don't bloody say." 

Daddy's tongue peeks -- just a little -- 

And Porthos remembers that the stableboys are still *in* the stables, waiting for *them* to shit or get off the pot. He straightens himself up a bit -- 

"Mm. I loathe it when you're *behaving*, son." 

"We'll be home soon, though." 

Daddy grins like a boy. "I love it when you say things like *that*." 

Porthos blinks -- and *realizes* what he'd just said -- 

That he'd called the *Captain's* rooms *home* -- 

He's never even *been* there, except to ride past it because he was curious of an evening -- 

He's never -- 

He still has to close up his *own* rooms -- 

Daddy hums and *squeezes* his shoulder. "I... am going to do my best not to run you over, son." 

"Uhh... what the bloody hell... I mean, you still have to petition the *King* about adopting the three of us!" 

"I already have, son." 

Porthos stares. 

And -- stares. 

And licks his lips -- 

And -- no. No. He nods and smiles to the stableboys -- 

Watches Daddy ruffle Pierre's hair and clap Anton on the back --

Gives up on being anything like professional and starts acting like he *always* does with the stableboys, which is maybe -- *maybe* -- a bit more flirtatious than a King's Man ought to be -- 

But now he absolutely *knows* why the stableboys -- and powder boys, and kitchen boys, and et-bloody-cetera -- have always *been* flirtatious right *back*. 

(Some of why, son. *I* wasn't... misbehaving with these particular boys, as opposed to the boys who *lured* these boys away from the brothels and street corners I *used* to visit... and so on.) 

*Right*. *Got* it. 

Daddy winks at him from his Lisle, and then they're riding out into the night, checking over the last few vendors shutting up shop for the night -- 

Nodding their respects and offering greetings and jokes to the people who work far, far harder than *they* do on a regular basis -- 

And then it's just a matter of checking their perimeter in neighbourhoods much safer than Porthos's usual, and thinking about -- what's going to happen. 

A lot sooner than he was *thinking*, for all that, apparently, a *large* part of himself was entirely ready to move right into Daddy's homes. 

"Our homes, son. *All* of ours." 

Porthos -- breathes. "I um. I actually knew that. I mean -- most of me did." 

"What can I do to make it all of you?" 

There's a part of Porthos which wants to brush the question off, assure his kind and wonderful superior officer that he doesn't need anything, that he's good enough to make it through, that he always *will* be, that he'll bloody well make him *proud* -- 

"Oh -- son..." 

"Yeah, um. I know that's not going to work," Porthos says, and smiles wryly at Daddy. 

Daddy laughs. "Not as such, son, no. It *did* work to make me harder, though, so we can revisit that in other contexts --" 

Porthos snorts -- 

Daddy grins. "But you were saying?" 

"I just uh... I think I need to see... more of this. More of *us*. More of *all* of us, being together. However we *can* be." 

Daddy nods slowly and approvingly. "You need to see your family. You need to *know* your family." 

"Oh -- *yeah*. That's exactly it, Daddy." 

"I need the exact same things, son -- in every possible way. We'll make it happen," Daddy says, and smiles warmly before turning back to the street. 

And -- Porthos is looking at Daddy's profile, the way he can absolutely admit that he's spent a significant amount of time doing over the past two years. 

Right now, Daddy's not looking especially steely, or hard, or grim, or -- or anything like that. He looks like he's in *control*, yeah, but it's more like he's in control of himself, and living exactly the life he wants to live, in the world he wants to live that life *in*. 

He -- he's not the Captain. 

He's Porthos's Daddy, from his head to his heels, and when he's proud of Porthos it comes with a touch, and when he's happy to know Porthos it comes with more touch, and when he loves Porthos -- 

When he loves everyone who's *worth* love, because this is the man he's always been, the man who's always been one good scratch, one good joke, one good *smile* under the Captain's *skin* -- and this is the man who loves with every part of himself, without one single hesitation or pause, and *with* every kind of fire you could want --

*This* is the man Porthos loves, and wants, and needs, and -- 

It feels a little strange, a little disloyal, maybe, to say, "no, it *wasn't* the Captain I wanted to grow into, after all," but...

You make mistakes when you're young. You don't *know* everything about yourself, or about what you need from the world, or about who you need to *be*. 

Porthos knows himself a lot better now. 

end.


End file.
